


I Am Ruined; I Am Helpless

by RedBerrie



Series: Helpless [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Mind the Tags, Multi, Rough Sex, Seriously folks, Sex for Favors, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7270969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBerrie/pseuds/RedBerrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jefferson might be the best at swaying public opinion, but Madison is fastest at finding and exploiting opportunities. "It will cost you," he answers the plea, with a look on his face that Jefferson recognizes immediately. "What will you do, to make us stop printing those rumors?"</i>
</p>
<p>Jefferson is spreading rumors that Hamilton engaged in speculation. What will the Hamiltons be willing to do to make the rumors stop?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this universe, I've tried to strike a balance between historical fact and the sheer entertainment value of the musical. Every character looks exactly like the actor who plays them in the original Broadway cast lineup. Because of that, race and racism isn't a factor in day-to-day dealings and relationships. Things like slavery are based in politics and nationality, not race. The events that happen will be a mixture of the play and the historical record. I'll try to detail what's what in the end notes in each chapter.
> 
> For those not in the know, Alexander Hamilton is played by Lin-Manuel Miranda, Eliza Hamilton is played by Phillipa Soo, Thomas Jefferson is played by Daveed Diggs, and James Madison is played by Okieriete Onaodowan.
> 
> This fic is going to get rough. Those tags are there for a reason. Please read at your own discretion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, I've tried to strike a balance between the musical and the historical record. For the most part, the events will be closer to true history, while the characters and their personalities will more closely match how they appear in the musical.
> 
> This fic is going to get rough. Those tags are there for a reason. Please read at your own discretion.

"So, as you can see, gentlemen, I have not broken the law. Yes, my conduct has been shameful and inappropriate, but it has not been treasonous." Alexander Hamilton settled back on his heels, a motion familiar from his days at the bar – it was the pose he'd assume when wrapping up an argument. "Are my answers to your satisfaction?" The last word was almost spat at the two men standing in front of him.

While it was true that both Aaron Burr and James Madison were known for their economy with words, those silences were strategic for both men, waiting for the perfect opportunity to speak. This silence wasn't the same. Alexander allowed himself a moment's smug satisfaction at realizing he had stunned both men speechless. It was a boast that not many could claim.

Burr recovered first. After almost six whole seconds of astounded silence, he allowed a breathy, "My God," to flow from his lips. "I ..." But however he was going to continue his thought was lost as he lapsed back into silence.

Alexander allowed the moment to drag on for another few seconds. "So...?" he finally prompted the two men.

"We are men of our word," Madison finally spoke. "Neither of us will reveal to the public what we know."

"Agreed," Burr contributed.

"Alright, then," Alexander replied, allowing himself to relax for the first time since the two men entered his office. Maybe he could come out of this with his career and his reputation intact.

Madison and Burr didn't linger long after that. The taint of scandal was too strong in the air, like a disease that could be caught by sheer proximity to the source. They made their excuses, exchanged just as many pleasantries as was proper, and left Hamilton to his schemes.

* * *

Aaron Burr kept his word the same way he did everything - thoroughly and methodically. Perhaps Hamilton's secret would go no further than the three men in that room, and all three would take it to their graves. Perhaps not. Either way, it would not be Burr's lips that erred. Content to have been in the room where it happened, he returned to his career and put the matter out of his mind.

James Madison wasn't as careful with his vow as Burr was. While he kept his word to the letter of the vow, the temptation to share his secret was too strong. It didn't take him long to confide in a friend, juicy gossip lubricated by close ties and good wine.

And Thomas Jefferson had made no restricting promises to Hamilton.

* * *

The years pass slowly.

Alexander waits fearfully, then anxiously, then almost impatiently for the hammer to drop.

Some nights it keeps him awake, tossing and turning restlessly, thinking through scenarios and practicing responses and just generally worrying. This, of course, affects Eliza, because she can't sleep when Alexander is uneasy and fidgety, which makes him realize that _he's going to have to tell her eventually_ , should probably have told her years ago, which just makes him more anxious.

He tells her that it's work, always work, that keeps him up at night, and she believes him.

The years pass slowly.

* * *

It's been two years since Burr and Madison came into his office, and he dares to hope.

Suspicion and worry may have clouded his days, but life has gone on. Madison and Burr might know what a piece of shit he can be, but to everyone else, he's the highly respected Secretary of the Treasury – love him or hate him, at least they listen to him. Tension over the whiskey tax had flared up into open rebellion, which had been stopped earlier that year. The Society for the Establishment of Useful Manufactures, a manufacturing program he had helped found in New Jersey, produced headache after headache, and he privately wondered if it was time to sink the whole thing to the bottom of the Passaic River. He had finally gotten his Mint, finally gotten his Coinage Act, and now it was time to start working on what should be minted, and where, and how.

That's what he was working on currently – debating and arguing over gold and silver and copper, over eagles and dollars and disme and cents. Congress may have adopted his bimetallic currency system, but that didn't mean that there weren't still idiots out there who-

And just like that, Eliza breezes into the room, and destroys his train of thought.

It's not that she's disruptive; far from it. His Betsey has always respected his work and his need for a conductive work space. No, it's more that she can't help but brighten every room she enters, that he can't help but feel drawn to her like a compass to a magnet.

Quietly, she makes her way over to the bookshelves in the office. He stops writing and lays his pen down, but keeps his face turned towards his papers as he watches her out of the corner of his eye. She hums softly to herself – a sound of satisfaction he feels in the pits of his stomach – and pulls the book from the shelf. Clutching it softly, she turns and leaves the room.

At least, she tries to. As she passes, he abruptly grabs her by the waist, and pulls her onto his lap.

The gasp of surprise she makes is quickly converted to giggles as he kisses the hollow right under her ear. Her skin is so soft, and she smells so good, that he can't help but plant kisses up and down her jawline.

There's a moment in every such flirtation when it turns to something more, when a simple display of affection becomes the prelude to further passions. He kisses her throat, then nips gently at the skin there, and knows that they've reached that moment when, instead of giggling again, she makes a noise in the back of her throat that sounds suspiciously like a moan. He only has to glance at her eyes, and can tell from the way her pupils are blown that she knows it, too.

"The children?" he asks simply, softly.

"Downstairs, with their lessons," she replies with a note of finality. Pulling away from him just a bit, she reaches over and shuts the office door as quietly as she can. The whisper of the lock sliding into place is oddly erotic.

He pulls her back up and easily twists her around, still on his lap but now facing each other. That's all the invitation she needs, and suddenly her mouth is covering his, and they're kissing like it's the most important thing they'll ever do, like they're newlyweds instead of husband and wife of fourteen years. Her tongue probes his mouth, and his hands knot in her hair to pull her even closer. She moans into his mouth, louder this time, and he can feel the vibrations from the sound in his own body.

Suddenly, he can't take it any longer, and his hands are lifting her skirts to frame her thighs. Gown, petticoats, and shift are shoved up, moved aside; stockings untied and removed. He takes a moment to be thankful for the high waistlines that are suddenly all the rage, and doubly thankful that hoops are no longer in style. His hands move up her thighs, until he's cradling her hips and buttocks. He can feel how hot she is, even from there. She shivers in delight, in anticipation, then is suddenly attacking the buttons of his breeches. She's so excited, it takes a few tries; but, finally, he's free and open.

He positions her carefully, moving her into position, before plunging her down onto himself in one swift motion.

She moans, again, when his balls hit her thighs, and it's a sentiment he can wholeheartedly agree with and return.

He would start to move her, up and down, except she's already doing it. His hands, once supporting her weight, now give her something to push off of, as she sets a pace that's surprisingly punishing.

He realizes, suddenly, that if she keeps this up, he won't last long. "Darling," he begins, but is silenced with a look. The heat in her eyes, the way her body is starting to tremble against his, makes him realize that his stamina might not be a problem.

In the end, she comes before he does. She moans, a quick, "oh, Alex!", and the way she clenches around him and the way he can feel her skin itself quivering against his still-clothed thighs undoes him. He comes inside of her, watches the world go white for a split second, and wonders what he ever did to deserve such an amazing wife.

Then little Johnny is knocking on the office door, demanding to be let in, and they're both scrambling to put themselves to rights.

* * *

It's been three years since Madison and Burr, and he can't take it any longer.

He's no longer Secretary of the Treasury; he resigned earlier that year. His Second Report on Public Credit has been completed and submitted, Jay's Treaty has been passed and signed, and suddenly his time isn't so precious. The private law practice he sets up instead doesn't demand nearly as much out of him as his public office did.

As a result, he's home more often, and home _around his family_ much more often. Suddenly, his life revolves so much more around Eliza. She's his sun, his moon, and he can't stand keeping what he's done from her.

So, he tells her.

She doesn't speak to him for three weeks.

He takes her anger as his due, accepting it as penance. He never pressures her to forgive him, simply apologizes wholeheartedly for what he has done and gives her space to heal. He sleeps in his office, and tries not to think about his army days.

He never seeks her out, but when they happen to be in the room together, he maintains a sort of one-sided small talk conversation. The flowers are coming in nicely. The weather has been unusually mild recently. The ham they had that night was exceptionally well done. The sunset the night before had been brilliantly hued. She never responds, but he doesn't expect her to.

Finally, three weeks later, he's preparing to retire for the night. She comes into the office, finds him there, and takes his hand. "Come to bed," she says gently, a suggestion, almost a plea.

He spends that night wrapped around her, arm draped across her waist. It's the best night sleep he's gotten in years.

* * *

It's been five years, and Jefferson has made sure everything has gone to shit.

It wasn't any one thing that pushed him to revenge. No, it was the little things. It was the fact that he's Vice President of the United States, and Alexander Hamilton is nobody, and yet he still holds enough influence with the people to impede his progress at every turn. The man doesn't even hold office, and still is influencing governmental policy.

But a simple affair, juicy as it is, isn't enough. No, Jefferson has stuck to the original story – the charge of speculation.

He's not careless enough to tie himself to it directly. No, he has people for that. A menial reporter willing to print the latest gossip, eager to sell papers. The truth is optional as long as the story is sensational enough.

It doesn't matter. Anyone who matters knows who's behind the leak.

Which is how Hamilton came to be begging in his office. "You know that these rumors aren't true. Please, for the love of decency, end this!"

Madison seems to be even more amused at the display than Jefferson is. But then, again, Madison is just pleased to have found a way around his promise. Or, rather, pleased that, after the fact, Hamilton has been ruined anyway, and Madison didn't have to do a thing.

Hamilton senses their amusement. Another pitiful, "please," makes its way across the room.

Jefferson is enjoying the tableau in front of him. Those dark eyes, round and innocent. Those plump lips, dented by just the lightest of pressures as Hamilton unconsciously bites them. And, most of all, that smooth, dark hair. Jefferson has wanted to run his fingers through that hair since he first saw it. He wonders if it's as soft as it looks.

As always, Jefferson might be the best at swaying public opinion, but Madison is fastest at finding and exploiting opportunities. "It will cost you," he answers the plea, with a look on his face that Jefferson recognizes immediately. "What will you do, to make us stop printing those rumors?"

And, no, Hamilton can't be that fooli- "Anything," is the immediate response.

The two Virginians share a brief look of malicious glee. "On your knees, then," Madison replies. Just to drive home the point, he spreads his legs.

Jefferson watches, delighted, as Hamilton struggles to understand what is happening. It takes entirely too long for those dark eyes to widen in understanding. A blush creeps up Hamilton's face, and it's one of the most beautiful things Jefferson has seen in a long time.

"You heard the man," he spits out, letting his voice harden. The command is almost as sharp as the sound of bone hitting the wooden floor as Hamilton obeys.

"Closer," Madison orders, and he's already unbuttoning his breeches.

The sight of those red-bitten lips around Madison's cock is so obscenely magnificent. Jefferson doesn't hesitate, he reaches over and buries his fingers in Hamilton's hair; and, oh! it's just as silky and luxurious as he's always imagined. He runs his fingers through it, petting Hamilton like a dog, before fisting a handful of satin strands to keep Hamilton from pulling away.

Jefferson watches those beautiful dark eyes gloss over, watches that mouth work, until Madison grunts a, "Thomas." Immediately, Jefferson pulls Hamilton back; Madison's cock leaving those lips makes a coarse _pop_.

They take turns fucking Hamilton against Jefferson's desk. When both men are satisfied, they leave Hamilton a crumpled mess on the floor.

Jefferson's fingers had never left Hamilton's hair.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In actuality, it was James Monroe, Congressman Frederick Muhlenberg, and Representative Abraham B. Venable that confronted Hamilton about the charges of speculation. They had a pretty good case against Hamilton, as James Reynolds and his partner Jacob Clingman (who actually were engaged in speculation, as well as counterfeiting and various other money-related shenanigans) had claimed Hamilton as an accomplice. Of course, Reynolds had done so, knowing that Hamilton would either have to come clean about his affair or go down for the charges. As the Treasury Department had filed the charges against them, Reynolds was convinced that Hamilton had arranged for their arrest, as revenge for Reynolds' blackmail. Instead of just lumping Hamilton in with the rest, Monroe, Muhlenberg, and Venable decided to pay Hamilton a visit, as a courtesy, and give him a chance to refute the charges in person.
> 
> Amusingly enough, as soon as the trio realized the, ah, delicate nature of Hamilton's true sins, they assured him that he didn't need to go into detail, that they had heard quite enough, and in fact urged him to stop. Hamilton, in true form, insisted on giving them an extremely detailed account of the entire affair.
> 
> There's some debate as to how, exactly, the letters between Hamilton and the Reynolds found their way to Jefferson. Some think that it may have been via John Beckley, the clerk of the House of Representatives that was given the task of copying the letters. He was a loyal Jeffersonian and may have made a separate copy for himself, then forwarded it to Jefferson and Madison. Others believe that Monroe, who was so close to Jefferson he brought a plot of land adjacent to Monticello to build his own home, meant Jefferson when he said that he "deposited the papers with a friend" for safekeeping, although Monroe himself vehemently denied that that was the case.
> 
> It's also true that Hamilton became very affectionate towards his family after his affair ended, and spent as much time with them as possible.
> 
> No one knows how Hamilton broke the news of his affair to Eliza, although he almost certainly did so long before it became public knowledge, so I made that section up completely. It's always struck me as interesting, however, that most of Eliza's complaints against Alex in the song "Burn" from the musical involve his making the affair public, not the affair itself. "You published the letters she wrote you / You told the whole world how you brought this girl into our bed / In clearing your name, you have ruined our lives" "The world has no right to my heart / The world has no place in our bed / They don’t get to know what I said" Honestly, at that time in history, the damage to his reputation (and, therefore, hers) probably was a bigger blow than the affair itself was. That's why I've written her as forgiving him in what some might consider a very quick fashion; the worse is yet to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so guilty for portraying Thomas Jefferson and James Madison as such monsters. Like, it probably goes without saying, but historically neither man was known to exchange sex for political favors in any way, nor was either man known as a rapist. This is all a product of my sick little mind.

It wasn't the first time that Jefferson and Madison had demanded payment of that type from a political rival, or from someone connected with one. It was amazingly effective at demoralizing the competition, and was just good fun besides. They would enjoy themselves, let off a little steam, send their enemy home with their tail between their legs, and move on.

However, the day after Hamilton, Jefferson couldn't stop thinking again and again about the afternoon before, replaying the experience. Again and again, he thought of that dark pool of hair. The silky way it slid between his fingers. The feel of it scrunched up in his fist. The desperation in Hamilton's eyes.

Maybe it was the nature of the encounter, the physical beauty of the victim. Maybe it was just the thrill of getting the upper hand on Alexander Hamilton. Whatever the reason, Jefferson just couldn't let it go.

Then he found himself thinking about James Reynolds, about how such a lowly nobody could exert such power over such a high-ranking and (Jefferson was loathe to admit) well-liked and respected public figure. He thought about the nature of blackmail, about extortion. Of holding power over someone solely through what you know.

The next step was hardly a huge leap.

That evening, Madison came to his New York estate for dinner; they often met the day after such an event, when they were both still flushed with their success and excitement. Jefferson waited until they had both eaten, until they retired to his study with a decanter of fine wine from back home and two glasses. Jefferson swirled the wine in his glass, watching the blood-red liquid coat the sides, affecting a casual air. "I've been thinking about the business meeting yesterday afternoon," he began.

The licentious smirk on Madison's face told Jefferson that James knew exactly what "meeting" he was talking about. "What of it?" Madison replied in the same off-handed manner.

"Well," Thomas said. "Obviously, our part of the bargain was our silence. What I would like to know is, just _how long_ , exactly, did our dear guest buy our silence for?"

It took Madison just a moment to pick up the train of thought where Jefferson had left off. Jefferson knew he had it when his face split in a sadistic grin. "Thomas, that's brilliant," he said, voice laced with sincerity and just a little surprised awe.

"I was thinking, a month, perhaps?" he suggested, sipping his wine. The vintage was excellent; the Virginian vineyard he favored had outdone themselves with this batch.

"A month?" James replied, voice betraying just a hint of the urgency that Thomas himself felt. "Such a paltry performance is worth a week's silence, at best."

Jefferson couldn't stop the hiss of surprise that escaped through his teeth. "Do you really believe we could get away with ... pushing the timetable so far?"

The grin Madison responded with showed his teeth in a way that was more predatory than anything else. "My dear Thomas," he said. "What other choice will Hamilton have?"

* * *

They drafted and sent the letter that evening, informing their victim that they will keep silent for exactly one week. That, at the end of the week, they will start publishing the rumors of speculation again. That they already have a journalist ready and eager to publish anything they're given, true or otherwise, in anticipation of the sales of pamphlets such a rumor is bound to create. That, if Hamilton would like to extend the length of time they'll keep silent, they'll expect payment in the same coin as before.

They're careful not to put either of their names anywhere near the letter. It doesn't matter; its recipient will know who it's from.

Hamilton doesn't reply. Neither man is alarmed or even surprised by this turn of events; if anything, they're amused. The lack of a reply means that Hamilton is scared, too scared to know how to react, and so doesn't. Good breeding and a genteel upbringing can only prepare you for so much, after all.

Reply or not, it doesn't affect anything. What matters is, come next Tuesday, their prey shows up to the slaughter.

* * *

Finally, finally, the rumors have stopped. There haven't been any new pamphlets printed in several days, and the public's attention is starting to wane. A new frigate, the USS _United States_ , had just been launched in the Philadelphia harbor – the very first ship in the brand-new Navy. Suddenly, the buzz all over New York is about the frigate, and her two sisters to be launched later that same year, and no one cares about what a former Secretary of the Treasury may or may not have done years ago.

Alexander should be relieved. He should, by all means, be rejoicing in this reprieve. Instead, he's a wreck.

Eliza watches as her husband does what he always does under stress – he throws himself into his work. Clients come and go; cases are built and either won or lost. When the cases dry up, he starts writing essays and pamphlets to keep his fellow Federalists abreast of current events, not only within the United States but also abroad, especially in France. For three nights in a row, he stays in his office well into the wee hours of the morning, before stumbling into bed and collapsing in exhaustion; only to rise early and begin the cycle anew.

She staves off his panicked activity as best she can. On the fourth night, when it appears that he'll repeat the pattern of the three nights before, she gathers some supplies and knocks on his office door. Without waiting for a response, she enters, armed with a bottle of the finest rum she could find in the house and two glasses.

Even while drinking and chatting with her, he continues to write. That's fine with Eliza; soon, the alcohol takes its toll, and he's nodding off on the desk. She takes the opportunity to convince him to retire early. He complains, but eventually accepts the inevitable and allows her to lead him to bed.

And if he didn't notice that she drank two glasses for every one he consumed ... so much the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> However he got them, it was actually a "journalist" named James T. Callender that formally leaked the scandal of Hamilton's affair, and repeated that old chestnut about Hamilton engaging in speculation. The theory was that there was no way that Hamilton would have paid someone like James Reynolds hush money for a year and a half, to the tune of something like $1,300 (for context, that's about $23,750 in today's currency), so the confession of adultery must be a smokescreen for something worse. Mr. Callender was basically the 18th century version of something between paparazzi and an OK! Magazine writer, making most of his money off of printing rumors and "celebrity" gossip. He published a very damning account of Hamilton's sins in his series of books, "A History of the United States for the Year 1796", published sometime in July of 1797. (At Jefferson's urging, he went after John Adams next. While he was trashing Federalists, Jefferson loved him, calling him "a man of genius". This, naturally, changed after Jefferson refused to appoint him as Postmaster of Richmond, Virginia, and in retaliation Mr. Callender let the world know about Mr. Jefferson's relationship with a certain Sally Hemings.)
> 
> Jefferson, amusingly enough, was horrible with money, and tended to spend it even faster than he made it. One of his favorite vices was French wine, which he had imported at considerable expense, then proceeded to share it with friends and even give away bottles. However, times have changed since then, and one of those changes has been a booming Virginian wine industry. It used to be that Virginia's humid summers made growing wine grapes difficult, reducing Virginia wine to a novelty, but that's changed within the past twenty years. Now, Virginia is home to 275 wineries (some of them multi-million dollar affairs), dozens of wine festivals (one of which is in honor of TJ himself), events, wine trails, and generally a lot of people who know what they're talking about deciding that Virginia wine is the bomb. They even started growing wine grapes and producing wine at Monticello. I feel like, as much as both the musical and the historical Jefferson loved Virginia, had the wine business been as big back then as it is now, Jefferson would probably have brought local. If he didn't make his own; TJeffs always struck me as a bit of a hipster.
> 
> Rum was a Big Deal in the Colonies, and then in the young United States. Before the Revolutionary War, rum consumption averaged out to about 3.6 gallons per year for every man, woman, and child. During the War, soldiers were given a ration of a "gill" (a quarter of a pint) of rum or beer per day. After the War, candidates running for office would often give potential voters rum to sway their votes -- the more generous you were with the rum, the more generous you would be in office. Washington himself insisted on a barrel of Barbados rum at his 1789 inauguration. As most of the rum at the time was either distilled in the West Indies or distilled in the States from sugar grown in the West Indies, I decided to make it Hamilton's spirit of choice.
> 
> About halfway through writing this chapter, I realized that Jefferson and Madison, being Vice President and a Congressman respectively, would have been residing in Philadelphia at this point, whereas the Hamiltons were living in New York City. Let's ... let's just pretend that everyone's in the same city, okay? Please? They're not jumping into a stagecoach for a two-day journey every time they want to meet in person. We'll say they're all in NYC, because that's where the musical puts those events as happening.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the more detailed scene everyone's been asking about. It probably goes without saying, but this one's a bit rough.

The rose bushes that they had planted last year are growing nicely. Already, they're twice as tall as they were last year. Brilliant blossoms turn to the sun, in every shade of coral that she could think of. Eliza stood in their bedchamber, looking at the bushes out the window, filling her mind with nothing but floral thoughts.

A crinkly noise suddenly filled the room. She looked down to realize that she had involuntary fisted the letter she had been holding, bunching it into a crude ball. The ink was starting to smear from the sweat of her palms; already, she could just barely make out her name scratched on the paper in a neat masculine hand.

It hardly mattered; she had memorized the contents at that point. Jefferson's letter had been quite concise and to the point, after all.

Suddenly, she remembered what she had come in here to do, why she had taken the incriminating letter out of its hiding spot. She turned and lit it afire with the candle she had brought with her and placed on the mantle for that purpose, watching the incongruously cheerful blaze consume the paper until it was only so much ash in the hearth. Under no circumstances could her husband ever know what that letter contained. What she had done for her family.

She had stalled long enough. With the air of the condemned preparing for the gallows, Eliza gathered her shawl around her shoulders. Jefferson and Madison would be expecting her.

* * *

Even having made her choice, she hesitates to knock on Jefferson's door. She stands there, stupidly gazing at the door, trying to gather her courage to raise a fist and announce her prescience, but it startled when the door opens on its own accord first. A man stands there, probably a butler of some sort, undoubtedly a slave. "You're expected, ma'am," he tells her, and Eliza can't help but shiver at how similar his southern drawl is to Jefferson's. "Right this way."

She follows him meekly, a lamb knowing that it goes to the slaughter. Vaguely, she wonders what the slave thinks of her presence, if he wonders what she's here for, or if he knows. She might not be the first victim he's presented to his master.

They're waiting for her in the office, seated in several Windsor chairs facing a Rococo-style canapé. Her throat goes dry, remembering the last time she was in this room. After today, she'll have more memories to add to the ones from last week. She barely registers as Jefferson thanks the slave and dismisses him.

As soon as the doors shut behind her, both men fix their attention solidly on her. "So nice of you to join us, Mrs. Hamilton," Madison says pleasantly. "I hope you had a pleasant walk here?" He's looking at her in a way that makes her want to climb the walls.

Instead, good breeding kicks in. "Very pleasant, yes, Congressman," she answers him.

"Good, good," he replies. "Your gown is quite lovely, I must say, but completely unnecessary. You won't be needing it for today. Why don't you go ahead and take it off?"

"In fact," Jefferson chimes in, "why don't you go ahead and take it all off?"

She swallows the lump that's appeared in her throat, but her mouth is suddenly dry. This hadn't been expected of her last time. The thought of being bare in front of these men is horrifying; and, damn it, from their expression, they know it. But it's not like she has a choice, and she knows it. Trying to keep the bitterness in her soul from twisting her face into a grimace, she takes a step from the door to give herself room and begins to remove her clothing.

Two sets of eyes follow her every move throughout the entire procedure.

First her gown goes, and she's careful to lay it across a chair so it doesn't wrinkle. Then, her petticoat joins it. Her corset is in the modern style, and comes off easily enough. Suddenly, nothing but a thin cotton shift protects her body from the eyes of these monsters, and she can't do it, she just can't do it. "Why are you doing this?" she asks of them instead, stalling. She means for it to come out strong, a demand, but instead it's barely a whisper, a pitiful plea.

Madison smiles at her, a predatory grin, while Jefferson rises and crosses the room towards her. "My dear Hamilton," Madison coos. "Why wouldn't we?"

Eliza might not have the brilliant intellect that these men have, but she's not stupid. Several puzzle pieces click together in her mind, completely heedless of the fingers that Jefferson is now carding through her hair. "This is revenge," she says. "I'm just a surrogate. You can't do this to my husband; he'd find a way around the blackmail. So, instead, you're using me as a replacement."

Madison almost winced at her statement, and she would feel a flush of victory if it wasn't for the sheer absurdity of the situation. "Partially," he admits. "Partially, it's also the joy of fucking Hamilton's wife, then looking him in the eye later and knowing that he has no idea. And partially," he leans back, recovered, the grin back in place, "it's just good fun. Now; shall we proceed?"

But that confession has given Eliza a little bit of courage. "No," she says, allowing the statement to drop from her lips into the room like an avalanche of boulders. "If you want this shift off me while you play your twisted little games, then you'll have to-"

She doesn't finish that sentence. The sensation of cold steel running down her back, along the bare skin from her shoulder blades to her buttocks, sends her sudden bout of confidence reeling. Cool air causes gooseflesh to erupt all over her skin and her nipples to harden as the ruined shift pools around her feet. She gasps at the sudden cold.

"We'll have to remove it ourselves?" Jefferson says, putting the letter opener away. "Is that how you were going to finish that sentence?"

She can do nothing but nod.

She jumps at a sudden ripping noise, as Jefferson (for some reason) begins to rip a strip off of the hem of the shift. It also wakes her up enough to realize just how Madison is looking at her now-nude body, like he's cataloguing every dimple, every mole, every detail to record later. Automatically, she raises her hands to cover herself.

She hears the blow of skin on skin before she feels the sting, as Jefferson slaps her bare ass. It awakens just a bit of the fury she had felt earlier. "Did you just ...?"

She is stopped by a slap on the other cheek. "None of that, now," Jefferson says, and uses her shock to gather her hands and twist them behind her. Suddenly, she feels something tighten around her wrists, and realizes that Jefferson has used the strip from her shift to tie her hands behind her back. She gapes at him in shock; never before, ever in her life, has anyone dared to treat her in such a manner. She considers telling him so for a moment, reminding him that her Schuyler blood is purer than both of their lineages put together; but he seems to anticipate her, and raises an eyebrow in challenge, and she is suddenly reminded of just how helpless she is.

She can feel the flush of her humiliation flowing over her skin, from her face to her breasts, and can do nothing but stand there and allow them to witness her degradation.

Madison seems satisfied by this in some way. "Thomas, would you like to go first?" he says to Jefferson.

Suddenly, fingers are in her hair again, dragging her towards the Windsors. Jefferson is just about to sit in his chair when he seems to think of something and snatches a pillow off the canapé and places it on the floor in front of the chair. "We don't want you to hurt your knees, now do we?" he asks, half-serious and half-mocking, as he lowers her to the floor at his feet.

"That was thoughtful, Thomas," Madison commends him, but Eliza can hear the taunt in his voice. He's looking at Jefferson, but she knows that it's aimed at her. "What do you say, Hamilton?"

Do they seriously want her to ... ? A jerk of the hand in her hair confirms that yes, yes they do. "Thank you," she bites out, trying to make the words as sincere as she can.

But Madison isn't finished. "Thank you, _what_?"

Eliza closes her eyes for a second, gathers her strength, and tries to swallow away the shame. It doesn't work. "Thank you, _sir_ ," she says obediently. The words come out wooden.

But both men seem to be satisfied with her offering. Jefferson is opening his trousers (he would wear trousers, the French dandy) and is already stiff and ready. He jerks her forward by the hair; she gasps in pain, and just like that his cock is in her mouth.

She barely has time to register what has happened. He thrusts his pelvis forward, and she finds out just how much larger Jefferson is than Madison when his cock hits the back of her throat and makes her gag. Neither man seems to care about that, however, so she tries to open her throat as much as possible and breathe through her nose. Jefferson, for his part, uses his hand fisting her hair to keep her in place as he mercilessly fucks her mouth.

She tries to find a position that's more comfortable, and in doing so curls her tongue around his cock as he pulls back, causing the surface of her tongue to scrape over every vein and crevice on the surface of his dick. He sucks in a breath in pleasure. "Good girl," he gasps, obviously pleased by what he undoubtedly thinks is her participation. She's too disgusted by the salty-flesh taste to care.

Suddenly, he's pumping faster, angling to hit her tongue again. She realizes what's about to happen a split second before something warm and syrupy fills her mouth.

If she thought his flesh was salty, his seed is so saliferous it burns her tongue. Her immediate instinct is to spit it out, get rid of it, but he's anticipated that response and puts one finger on her chin and lifts it towards the ceiling, exposing her throat. With her hands tied and her head tilted back, she has no choice but to swallow the distasteful mouthful.

He releases her, and she gratefully lowers her chin. In doing so, she catches his eye, and the heat and arousal still present there is the most terrifying thing she's ever seen.

"My turn," Madison announces, and she tries to prepare herself for another face-fucking.

Madison has other ideas. She's suddenly on her feet and being hustled towards the settee. Without thought to dignity or comfort, Jefferson drapes her across one armrest, face in the upholstery and ass in the air, hands still tied behind her back, then goes to stand at the other end.

She cringes, waiting to feel Madison's dick inside her, but it doesn't come. Instead, she can feel him fingering and caressing her folds, then holding them open to stroke the sensitive tissue around her opening. She involuntarily spasms at the sensation, but there's nowhere to go; neither man seems to even notice. "So beautiful," Madison croons. "Like rose petals. You, my dear, are a perfect red rose." That seems to be what passes for foreplay with Madison, because without further ado he unbuttons his breeches and plunges into her.

Madison fucks her in a way that's completely artless and ungraceful. She's used to sex being like a dance, a give-and-take between two partners; but it's obvious that Madison is just using her as a warm hole to get off in. At least he isn't rough. She buries her face in the cushions of the canapé and tries to blank her mind and wait for it to be over.

Jefferson, still standing at the other end of the canapé, shifts his weight. She looks up to see that he's still completely and immaculately dressed, save for the cock hanging out of the front of his trousers. The sight is repulsively grotesque. Still, she can't look away from the incongruous sight. To her horror, she realizes that the cock is starting to harden again.

When Madison comes, he does so inside of her. She winces as she feels his cum fill her, and says a quick prayer that his seed doesn't take root. She tries to push away a mental image of a baby with skin far darker than its siblings.

Madison gets off her, and she prays that it's over, that she'll be untied and allowed to dress and go home, but she fears that that isn't the case. Her fears are confirmed when she hears Madison pause in cleaning himself off to exclaim, "Why, Thomas, I think you're ready to go again."

That's all the dick in her line of sight needs to harden the rest of the way. She sighs to herself as Jefferson comes around the settee to take Madison's place. For the second time, she braces herself to feel a cock slide in, but doesn't.

Instead, to her immeasurable relief, her hands are untied.

She immediately uses them to push herself up off the canapé, but doesn't get far before Jefferson is flipping her over onto her back. She gets no time to register the new position before Jefferson is crouching on top of her. He's obviously settling in to take his time, not rush to the finish like Madison did.

To her immense surprise, he begins to kiss along her throat and collarbone.

She apparently made some sort of sound of bewilderment, because he hums a laugh against her skin. It tickles, but in an oddly pleasant sort of way. Jefferson slides a finger into her, making sure she's still moist, which she thinks is an oddly gentlemanly gesture considering the circumstances, before letting his cock replace it.

He immediately sets up a tempo that's surprisingly pleasurable. Unlike Madison, he appears to be taking her enjoyment into consideration; which just makes things worse. With Madison, she could just fade away and let him do whatever he wanted; with Jefferson, she's forced into the present, and into feelings of guilt that she's actually having a good time.

She closes her eyes, and pretends like she's back at home. It's not Jefferson's settee at her back, it's hers; it's not Jefferson atop her, it's her Alexander. The kids have gone to bed, and they've locked the door and have decided to amuse themselves. Alexander feels different because ... because they're trying something new.

Jefferson shifts a little on her, changing the angle of his dick inside of her, and she makes a little mew of pleasure before she can stop it. Even though she keeps her eyes closed, she can sense both men pause in surprise. Then something inside Jefferson's testosterone-driven male brain clicks, and it's a game. See if he can make her make that noise again.

Jefferson shifts again, so he's coming in at a steeper angle, and oh! it hits her just right. Then, oh! he does it again, and, oh! again, and she realizes that she's saying "oh!" out loud. He increases the tempo, and she starts thrusting up to meet him, and she's crying out, moaning with the pleasure of it all, and Alexander grabs her hips to get better purchase, and he slams into her one last time, and they're both coming. She hears herself cry out, "yes!" as the waves of bliss roll over her and wrap around her like a warm blanket. "Oh, Alex!" she moans, settling into her own contentment.

She can tell by the stillness in the air around her that something is wrong. She opens her eyes ... and it all comes rushing back to her.

Madison is standing off to the side, looking like he's having trouble breathing, he's laughing so hard. Jefferson is staring at her with an expression she can't decode, but it seems to be something between anger and disappointment.

"Oh, oh, that's good!" Madison has found enough oxygen to exclaim. "You should have ... you should have seen ..." And he's laughing too hard to complete the thought.

Eliza lays back down on the settee, feeling like a piece of shit. What she did, what she just did, was even worse than anything that they could ever do to her. The utter humiliation sours to self-contempt in her stomach, and she understands for the first time in her life how a person could end their life to redeem their honor. "Are we done here?" she asks the man still braced above her, her voice a hollow shell devoid of emotion.

Without a word, Jefferson climbs off her.

She doesn't look at either man as she dresses as quickly as she can, desperate to escape. Madison is still laughing as she leaves, her petticoat rubbing oddly against her skin without the ruined shift. She all but runs down the hall, not even waiting for the butler to escort her back out as is proper. She bursts into the streets like a woman possessed, and doesn't even have the prescience of mind to be glad that no one is around to see.

She can't go home, not like this. She turns into a little park close by Jefferson's house, finds an alcove out of the way that will give her as much privacy as she could possibly have outside her own home, and plops down on the bench there.

She can't cry. She just can't. If she begins, she'll never stop. She'll sit here, sobbing until she's completely dry, until she's completely numb. Her family will worry about her. Worse, when she returns home with a red nose and tear-streaked cheeks, she'll not be able to explain herself.

So, instead, she takes her shawl, balls it up as tightly as she can, uses it to cover her face, and screams until she's hoarse.

When it's done, she's calm enough to pretend that all is fine, to give her children and husband a smile that's convincing enough to fool them. She rises, puts herself to rights, and leaves the park. On the way home, she purchases a bonnet in the latest style and several yards of cloth to explain her absence.

She has no idea how she's going to survive doing it all again next week.

* * *

Alexander comes downstairs the next day to find a team of gardeners tearing out the rose bushes outside their bedroom window. He finds Eliza, and asks her what she's done.

"The roses weren't growing right in the shade," she responds, an odd smile that looks almost like a grimace on her face. "Don't worry, darling; I'm having them put in azaleas, instead."

He could have sworn the roses were thriving, but he trusts her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's three chapters in four days. I'm spoiling you guys!
> 
> If you're curious, the canapé in the story is a sofa in the Louis XV style, also known as the Rococo style, made famous by Louis' mistress, Madame de Pompadour.
> 
> During the sex chapters, let's just decide not to think about the fact that Jefferson would be 54 years old and Madison 46 years old in 1797. We'll pretend that they take magical French elixirs that make them both appear to be about 35 years old. M'kay?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe I'm getting into a rhythm -- set-up chapter, sex chapter, set-up chapter, sex chapter. This one's a set-up chapter.

Hamilton dressed so quickly, it almost seemed superhuman. Thomas watched the little tart hesitate over her ruined shift, then ignore it for the pile of clothing she had heaped on one of his Windsors. Thirty seconds, at the longest, and she was all but fleeing the room.

He watched her go, feeling oddly unsatisfied. That second time, on the canapé, had been amazing – he wouldn't lie, not inside his own skull. And yet, when she cried out at the end, it hadn't been his name that fell from her lips, but ...

"There's no way that Alexander fucking Hamilton is better in bed than I am," he bit out to James. He meant it to sound wry, but it came out bitter.

James started laughing again. Thomas was just deciding to take offense when James explained himself. "Can you imagine Hamilton in the sack? I wonder if he ever shuts up. His wife probably has to stuff a pillow in his mouth just to get some peace."

Just like that, Thomas was able to let go of his bitterness. It was in moments like this that Thomas remembered why he was friends with the man. "He's so tiny anyway," he joined in the fun. "I bet his dick is the size of the average man's finger."

James snorted at that. "Fucking with him is probably like fucking with a quill," he said. "Maybe that's why he likes to write so much. The heft of the thing is familiar in his hand."

Thomas found himself laughing heartily at the mental image; after a moment, James joined in.

"Speaking of Mrs. Hamilton," Thomas segued after they had quieted. "Any ideas on how we should entertain our esteemed guest next week?"

Madison thought for a moment. "What about what we did with that idiot Federalist's wife in Charlottesville?" he asked.

Thomas tried to imagine it, inserting Hamilton into the memory, and shook his head. "Maybe in two weeks," he said. "Let's work up to that."

"Alright. What about what we did to that Congressman in Philadelphia?"

Thomas' grin turned feral. "I believe that that will work," he said.

* * *

Three days later, Eliza took stock and realized that she felt like she could leave the house again. So, she left the children to their studies to do a little shopping. Real shopping, not using shopping as an excuse to cover for other activities. It had been awhile since she had purchased anything non-essential, and she felt like treating herself.

There's a row of shops on Broad Way, close to where it intersects with Canal Street, that she loves to visit. The vivaciousness of the city, the chaos of the carriages and coaches in the street, the barking of dogs and neighing of horses, the cries of vendors, the gossip of pedestrians – it makes her feel alive. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, secured her bonnet on her head, and set forth into the city with her purse dangling from her wrist and an actual smile on her face.

The city is like salve for her soul. She may be a country girl, born and raised, but the city has her heart. She pressed a coin into the palm of an orphan begging on the street, and went into William Prentis' shop. Mr. Prentis sells the finest porcelain, floorcloths, glassware, and pewter in the entire city. Besides which, there's a jar of candy on the counter near the front, which will help soothe children who are undoubtedly still smarting over not being allowed to accompany her.

Half an hour later, she leaves the store with the candy in a bag and a beautiful new glassware set and pineapple-themed floorcloth to be delivered to their home later.

She surveyed the street around her, trying to decide where to go next, when she felt a tug on her sleeve. "Excuse me, ma'am?" A boy, around James Alexander's age, dressed in the livery of a servant and speaking with a slight drawl, attempted to get her attention. "Are you Mrs. Alexander Hamilton?"

She beamed at him, feeling herself snap into her dealing-with-children mindset. "Yes, I am," she replied. "And who might you be?"

"Miles, ma'am," he replied. "My master sent me to give you this." He held out a parcel, roughly the size of her forearm and wrapped in paper and tied with a ribbon.

"Oh?" she asked, accepting the parcel graciously, if a bit bewildered. "Thank you?" She didn't mean to make it a question, but the phrase turned up a bit at the end anyway.

"I'm to see you open it, ma'am," the child said, stepping back a step so as not to crowd her. "Begging your pardon, ma'am."

A knot of something she could only call premonition settled in her stomach. She ignored it, trying to keep a smile on her face so as not to frighten the boy, and obediently untied the ribbon and unwrapped the paper.

Only to drop it onto the pavement with no less fear and disgust than if it had been a live serpent in her hands.

Laying on the pavement, nestled prettily in the fine paper, was a single pink rose.

"Who is your master, child?" she asked, eyes never leaving the flower.

"Congressman James Madison, ma'am," he replied, puzzled. "He says ... he says that you are to bring it with you when you visit the home of Vice President Jefferson for dinner next week, ma'am. Are you ... are you all right, ma'am?"

She swallowed a lump that had suddenly formed in the back of her throat. "I'm fine, Miles, thank you." Attempting to appear normal, she bent down and retrieved the rose. Quickly, she wrapped it back in its paper, so she wouldn't have to look at it.

"Alright, ma'am. If you're sure?"

The poor child had no idea intricacies of the games adults played on each other, she thought. Working for that viper, he'd find out soon enough. "I'm sure, Miles, thank you very much." She lifted her eyes to the boy, and attempted a reassuring smile that she could only hope didn't look like a grimace. "Here you are, child. For your trouble." Coming back to herself, she dug into the bag she was carrying and pressed a candy into Miles' hand.

His face lit up in a genuine smile. "Thank you, ma'am!" he cried before turning and running off, likely to enjoy his treat somewhere. In the back of her mind, Eliza wondered how many such treats he got.

She tucked the wrapped flower away, in her purse, to deal with later.

Whatever pleasure the shopping trip had had for her when she left the house was gone. Feeling suddenly like a fox running before the hounds, she stepped into the second and last shop of the day, and emerged with several bottles of rum and whiskey.

* * *

That night, she waits for the children to go to bed and for her husband to go to his office, and then goes to where she secreted the bottles and pulls out the first one her fingers touch. She pours herself a glass and downs it without even looking at which one she grabbed, without even looking at what spirit she's drinking.

The alcohol burns all the way down. It's a pleasant sensation.

Two more glasses later, and she's decided that she can't live like this anymore. She just can't do it. There has to be another way, a way out.

Then she remembers what she told Madison, three days ago. That they wouldn't do this to Alexander. That they _couldn't_ do this to Alexander; he would have found a way around the blackmail.

For a moment she's tempted to tell him everything. Dump it all on his head, and let him figure it out. It's his inability to keep his dick in his breeches that got them in this mess in the first place, after all.

But that's the alcohol talking, and she knows it. He'd be devastated if he knew. _She'd_ be devastated if he knew. And it doesn't matter; she might not have the brilliant mind of her husband, but she's plenty smart in her own way. She can figure this out.

Sitting on the floor in the parlor, no lights lit, she sips her liquor and begins to scheme.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Floorcloth" is the old-timey word for "rug". Pineapples symbolized welcome, at least in the colonial era. I didn't particularly want to research exactly when pineapple motifs went out of style, so when I found a photo of a 1770s floorcloth with a pineapple theme, I decided it was close enough and threw it in. If any reader knows for a fact that they were no longer in style by 1797, just pretend that Eliza's into antiques.
> 
> I did research, however, exactly how retail therapy worked in the late 18th century; or, at least, I tried. I didn't come up with much. One thing I did find, however, was an interesting print from 1836 of a shop district on Broadway, "Showing each Building from the Hygeian Depot corner of Canal Street to beyond Niblo's Garden" or something like that. The font's very hard to read. It looked about right, however, so I worked it in (and other similar prints) and BSed the rest. For anyone wondering, New York streets in general (and Broad Way in particular) before things like traffic lights and painted lanes became a thing resembled the Victorian version of Thunder Road.
> 
> Our two Virginians have settled into a routine with their little extracurricular activities. In case you were wondering: Jefferson's in it to stick it to Hamilton, and prove himself the "better" man. Madison's in it to have fun; and also, somewhat, to stick it to Hamilton, but Madison doesn't hate Hamilton as strongly or as blindly as Jefferson does. Madison's also getting a bit bored with the whole thing, so is quickly becoming the true douchebag of the pair.
> 
> I have planned out exactly what the pair did to both the idiot Federalist's wife and the Congressman. Eliza's not going to like it, but hopefully you guys will. On that note, however, I wanted to say that if anyone has suggestions, or a kink they'd like me to work in, send me a comment or a message. No promises, but I'll do what I can.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was surprisingly hard to write. I'm still not completely happy with it, but it's close enough to what I wanted.

"Ah, Mrs. Hamilton," Jefferson said as she walked through the door. "So glad you could make it."

Eliza looked around, surprised. Instead of the office, the butler had escorted her to what looked like the dining room. A large mahogany table dominated the center of the room. Although there was space for eight places around the table, only three were currently set. Jefferson sat at the head, Madison at his left. Her place was at the foot of the table, with her back to the door.

With a start, she realized that she had been staring. "Forgive me, I didn't realize that you would be serving a meal," she said, walking towards the table. The butler held her chair out for her.

Both men seemed amused at her being caught off guard, but Madison fake-frowned at her words. "Didn't my boy find you on Friday?" he asked.

The bastard knew fully well that he had. "Yes, of course," she said, annoyed at herself for feeling embarrassed. _She_ had done nothing wrong.

"Well, then," Madison replied, sitting back in his chair. "Did you bring it?"

"Bring what?" Jefferson asked as Eliza obediently dug the wrapped rose out of her purse. "What is that?"

"Just a little gift I sent to our guest," Madison replied, taking the parcel from her and unwrapping it. Jefferson smirked when he saw what it was, but Eliza thought he looked a bit ... troubled. Her eyes may have been playing tricks on her. "Here we go." Madison took the rose and snapped the dethorned stem so that it was only about three inches long. "And, look, it matches your gown." Eliza looked down to realize that, yes, she had worn her linen-colored gown with the small red flowers. "It would mean so much to us if you would wear it in your hair."

_That_ got Jefferson's attention. They watched, Madison smug and Jefferson hungry, as she woodenly placed the rose atop her right ear.

Seeing the heat in Jefferson's eyes, she wondered how long the flower would stay there.

She ate in silence, while the two men talked about nothing in particular. The food was excellent, she assumed. It looked good, at least. However, considering where she was, whom she was with, what she was about to do, and the way the flower stem weighed heavy between the curve of her ear and her scalp, the food tasted like ash in her mouth.

All too soon it was finished. She tried to smile at the slave who took her half-eaten plate away, but if the look of pity the man gave her wad any indication she wasn't successful.

"Shall we retire into the other room?" Jefferson suggested. He pulled her chair out for her himself.

Numbly, she followed the two men into the office. She heard Jefferson close the door behind her and turn the lock.

* * *

Jefferson is still behind her, and she thinks the freak may be smelling her hair. Madison looks her up and down, and takes a breath to speak, and she knows for a fact that he's about to order her to strip. So she speaks first.

"Before we begin," she says, "I have a preposition to make." She tries to make her voice firm and strong, but isn't sure that she's successful. An image of Alex Junior with mud all over his Sunday best pops into her mind, and she uses it for inspiration. "I want my life back," she begins. "I'm tired of the filthy things you make me do. I'm tired of lying to my husband and children. So, I have a proposal." This will be the hard part; she takes a deep breath to steady herself. "I know that men ... prefer certain things, when they're involved with a woman ... _or-a-man_ ... intimately." This isn't going well. "I have heard that men enjoy ... sticking their ... member in their partner's ... well, to be frank, in their partner's rectum." She can't help but blush at that, but keeps her composure. "I am willing to submit to such a thing, without complaint, if you give your word to never again spread your horrible rumors.”

Whatever they were expecting, it wasn't that. "So, you're saying," Madison says, face giving nothing away, "is that you will allow us to sodomize you in exchange for our permanent agreement not to print what we know."

"Yes," she affirms, feeling the blush deepen.

The two men share a look, and she feels a momentary spark of hope in her chest before they both simultaneously burst out laughing.

"Poor Hamilton," Jefferson says, almost to himself. "His wife has never given him anal."

"Do you really think," Madison addresses her, "that if we wanted to, we couldn't demand any orifice of your body for our own use? And you'll give it to us? And thank us for the privilege of saving your family's reputation?"

He's right, damn him. They can order anything they want, at any time, because they hold all the power. What can she do to them if she doesn't like it?

"Of course," Madison says, leaning back and studying her. "If you really want us to sodomize you, we can accommodate."

Eliza feels all the blood leave her face. Not only has her plan failed, but it's actually made her situation worse. The look on Madison's face says that he's noticed her reaction, and she's terrified that she's sealed her fate.

"Why don't you undress so we can get started?" Jefferson asks, and he does that feral grin that makes her feel like a deer staring down a hunter's musket.

She tries one more time. "Please," she begs, and feels her eyes start to tear up. "I just want my life back. Name your price. Anything. I just want my life back."

Madison's eyes harden, and it's one of the scariest things she's ever seen. "Our price?" he says. "Our price is that you do as your told now, spread your legs like a good little trollop, and let us fuck you any way we want. And then do it again next week. Now; clothes. Off. Now."

Mutely, she does as requested. She only hesitates a moment this time before depositing her shift with the rest of her clothes.

"Good girl," Madison says, his expression suddenly pleasant, and she feels herself flush again in humiliation at the praise. "Now, we're going to play a game we like to call 'Heads or Tails'. I'm going to flip this coin," he holds up a Spanish _peso_ , "and you tell us which one of us the coin applies to."

"Applies to for what?" she asks, not entirely sure she wants to know.

"Never mind that," he says. "That's part of the fun. Here we go." He flips the coin, making sure it spins several times in the air, and Eliza realizes he's done this before. Probably multiple times. He catches the coin midair and slaps it onto the back of his other hand, hiding which side of the coin is up. "Now choose."

She's not going to get any answers. They're going to keep at her until she obeys. "Jefferson," she picks, hoping desperately that her choice wasn't a mistake somehow.

Madison lifts his hand to reveal the crowned hemispheres between two bannered pillars. "Tails," he announces to Jefferson, who smiles. "You get tails, I get heads."

Jefferson stands, grabs an armless side chair from its place in a corner, and drags it to the center of the room. He studies it for a moment, before grabbing a pillow from the settee and laying it in the seat of the chair. "If you would, please," he directs to Eliza, and gestures to the chair.

Mutely, she walks over to the proffered chair and goes to sit. “Oh, no,” Jefferson corrects her. “Not like that. Lay across the chair, if you will, with your stomach on the seat.”

She imagines the position, and feels herself blushing yet again when she imagines how vulnerable and on display she will be. But when Jefferson's expression darkens, she lays across the chair as directed, before she's forced there.

Jefferson walks behind her, to stand by her rear end, and Madison moves to stand by her head, and she realizes in a flash of clarity exactly what is about to happen.

"Both at once?" she asks, her voice dull.

In answer, Madison started unbuttoning his breeches.

She's watching Madison's progress with something between dread and resignation when she feels Jefferson slide a finger inside of her. She's not sure why, exactly, he's extending this kindness now, but appreciates the sentiment nonetheless. He knows what he's doing, and she's ready for him when he replaces his fingers with his cock.

The effect is somewhat ruined when Madison suddenly grabs her head and presses at the hinge of her jaw. Her mouth is open and Madison's cock is in it before she can so much as blink in surprise.

She quickly realizes that, with one man at either end of her torso, there's not much room to move. She's sandwiched in between them rather efficiently. Madison buries both hands in her hair, using it as leverage to drive himself deep into her mouth; she reflexively tries to pull away, but finds that she can't.

Fortunately, Jefferson has found his rhythm, and is hitting something right. Before she can help it, she hums in pleasure; the vibrations around his dick spur Madison on, and he's suddenly thrusting wildly into her mouth. Instinctively, she jerks back; but even if Jefferson hadn't been there, his grip in her hair is too tight. He comes a few moments later, and she finds her mouth filled with the disgusting salty taste of his seed.

She's about to spit it out when she finds her head suddenly jerked up by the hair. Madison says nothing; he doesn't have to. Obediently, she swallows.

Meanwhile, Jefferson seems to have something to prove. He realizes that Madison has finished and stepped back, leaving her all to himself. He thrusts deeper, and at the perfect angle, making her moan in pleasure; the sound only spurs him on. At this rate, _she's_ going to come.

He leans over her back. "What's my name?" he practically whispers in her ear.

Ah, that's what this is about. "Jefferson," she responds obediently, enjoying herself too much to fight it.

But he's not satisfied with that answer. "What's my name?" he demands again.

She realizes what he wants, and is blissed out enough to give it to him willingly. "Thomas," she responds; and as if that name was a cast spell, he immediately comes.

She's not sure if it's meant as a reward or not, but he makes sure that she comes, as well.

The haze of pleasure her orgasm wraps around her doesn't last nearly long enough. Soon enough, she's back in the real world, with all the shame and heartache and pain her little visits cost her, with an extra dose of guilt this time for enjoying it. Woodenly she rises from the chair and dresses without looking at any man.

Jefferson stops her before she can leave. He's stroking her cheek, right under where the rose is somehow still stuck in her hair. "Your husband doesn't know what he truly has," he tells her, which just reminds her of exactly why she's being forced to do this in the first place.

She stands there, numb, and waits for him to finish whatever it is he wants from her before leaving.

On the way home, she throws the rose in the Hudson.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spanish peso, aka the Spanish dollar, aka "piece of eight", was the most common coin in the United States until the Mint started making its own. (Until that time, we were just using whatever other nation's currency we just had lying around. Hamilton is the reason we started printing our own currency, and the reason we printed money at a federal level instead of a state level; in other words, the reason why you don't have to switch currencies every time you cross state lines. Thanks, Hammy!) You can find pictures of it online if you want, with a really quick Google Image search. The "obverse", or "heads", has the Spanish royal coat-of-arms, crowned, with various writing around the perimeter (including the name of the current king when that particular coin was minted); the "reverse", or "tails", has two globes ("hemispheres", as one is of the Old World and the other of the New World), with another crown over them, over top of the Rock of Gibraltar (which was owned by Spain at the time), and surrounded by two pillars. Those pillars each had a banner twirling around them, one with the word "PLUS" and the other with the word "VLTR". (PLUS VLTR was an abbreviated form of the motto "Plus Ultra", or "more beyond".) The right pillar, the "VLTR" one, the way the banner is wrapped around it, it looks like an "S". The outline of the column looks like two vertical lines running through the "S". This is the origin of the dollar ("$") sign.
> 
> The peso was also being minted with (at the time) modern minting techniques, with cutting-edge technology, that allowed for a uniform weight, a perfect circle shape, and milled edges. It still probably wasn't a 50/50 chance, like with modern coins, but I'd imagine that, if you absolutely had to flip a coin in the 1790s, the peso would be the coin to use.
> 
> I almost had Madison force anal sex on Eliza in this chapter, then force her to thank him afterward, but then I sent Satan out to play and decided to dial back the evil a bit.
> 
> Next chapter has 8x more Philip!


	6. Chapter 6

 

As the Senior Officer of the Army, a decorated war veteran, the former Secretary of the Treasury, and the founder and one of the most powerful member of the Federalist part, Alexander never wanted for clients. Sometimes, those clients were well-known public figures. Sometimes, those clients were very powerful people and entities. Right now, his client is the State of New York.

The trial will take place in Hartfort, a three day journey away (two, if he's pushing it).

He's consolidating papers, preparing for his journey, when Eliza comes in. Just like always, she immediately becomes the center of the room. He can't help but stop what he's doing to watch her, and fall in love with her for the millionth time since that ball all those years ago. Fortunately, she's not paying him the least bit of attention, so he doesn't have to be discreet about watching.

She's after a new quill. Briefly, he wonders which child has broken theirs. It's easy enough for her to retrieve a new one and start out the door.

Like he's done a thousand times before, he grabs her by the waist and pulls her onto his lap.

He's caressing her cheek and planting kiss after kiss on her throat, when he realizes something's wrong. Instead of the mock-surprise and giggles he's usually rewarded with for his audacity, there's ... nothing. Silence. He frowns when he realizes that she's not laid back against his chest like she usually is, but is sitting straight up and as tense as a soldier at attention. That worries him.

It worries him even more when he realizes that she's trembling. "Eliza?"

She leaps from his lap as if burned. "Sorry, darling," she says, a smile on her face that's as wooden as a mask. "I'm just not in the mood right now. Maybe later?" And with that, she's gone.

He sits and stares at the doorway she had so quickly vacated for longer than he probably could afford to waste, deep in thought.

* * *

He wonders if she's mad at him for some reason; but, no, Eliza isn't petty. If she was holding something against him, she would bring it out in the open, for the rift to be mended quickest. And her actions weren't of anger, but almost of ... fear? Was that right?

By the time he retires for bed that evening (with a wife who seems to be pretending like nothing had happened), he's just as lost as he was right after she left the office.

It hardly matters. The next few days produce events that make his wife's mental health, as important as it is, the furthest thing from his mind.

* * *

It started with a headache. Then came the body chills and the nausea. When fifteen-year-old Philip spiked a fever, his parents began to worry.

When the rash appeared on his chest, they sent for the doctor.

Fortunately, the Hamilton name carried weight, and it brought the attention of the best – Dr. David Hosack, professor of medicine at Columbia University. Dr. Hosack worked diligently to cool the raging fever and calm the swelling in the poor boy's brain.

But even the best doctor is no miracle worker. The prognosis didn't look good.

And, still Alexander has to leave for Connecticut.

Eliza watched him pack, alternating between reassuring him that he's making the right choice, and wanting with her entire being to beg him to stay. But her husband has no choice, and they both know it. He left, after promising to write her regularly.

That night, Philip took a turn for the worse.

The cold baths that saved both Alexander's life and her own during the outbreak of yellow fever several years ago do nothing for her son. The doctor eventually banished her from the room, stating that she would do her son no good in her current state of agitation. Secretly, Eliza worried that he was simply doing her the kindness of sparing her the sight of her son's last moments on earth.

Her fears were confirmed when she heard that the doctor had sent for her husband. She couldn't hear his exact words to the courier, but the words “before he passes” dropped like a stone into the pit of her stomach. Eliza spent the entire day pacing outside her son's sickroom, not knowing whether she wanted to know what was happening inside or not.

The next night, Philip's pulse weakened, and he slipped into a coma.

Eliza stood outside the door where her son lay dying, and realized in a rush that it was Monday night.

Quickly, she ran to the office. Her hands shook as she took up a quill and wrote a hasty message. The thoughts flew in and out of her head – so much to keep track of, so much to think about, so much to put aside for the moment. But, eventually, she had what she believed was a letter relaying her regret to Jefferson at not being able to meet him the next day, and the reason why, without sounding suspicious or inappropriate.

She was surprised to receive a reply that same night.

> _DEAR MADAM_

> _I shall with great mourning, my Dear, forgo the pleasure of your company tomorrow afternoon. I should be a true villain indeed if I were to obtrude myself on the mother of a sick son. I will come for you on Tuesday next between three and four o'clock. We will speak at that time on how you will repay me my kindness. Your affectionate friend & humble servt._

> _TH: J._

Her blood ran cold when she read that last sentence, but nothing could be done about that at the present. Instead, she said a quick prayer of gratitude that her husband was away and not there to question her on whom she was receiving correspondence from at that hour, and secreted the letter away in the drawer of her personal desk. She would burn it later, when there was no possibility of the doctor or his assistant walking in on her.

She resumed her place outside her son's room to learn that the doctor had just immersed Philip in a hot bath of Peruvian bark and rum. She peeked through the door to see her son on the bed, wrapped in blankets, looking so frail and tiny laying there. His head having flopped a bit to the side when he was laid down, he looked almost like a doll.

He looked like a corpse.

She must have made some sort of sound of protest, because the next thing she knew, the door was closed in her face. Far from being upset at this fact, all she could feel was relief that the horrific sight was gone.

The next morning, she looked around, confused at first, only to realize that she had fallen asleep outside Philip's room. And that she had awoken when the doctor shook her awake. That could only mean one thing. She steeled herself for the bad news.

“He's revived,” came instead.

* * *

Alexander returned home two nights later, in a flurry of activity and reassurances. He had fully expected to hear the worse news of his life, had come home to bury his son. Instead, he's presented with a reviving son, and cautious hope that that revival will continue.

When he heard everything that the doctor had done, the lengths he had gone to to save his son's life, Alexander can't contain his gratitude. He woke the poor man up, just to thank him, tears of joy staining his face.

He insisted on taking on the care and nursing of Philip himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In early September of 1797, Philip Hamilton did suffer a "severe, bilious fever, which soon assumed a typhus character" that left his family fearing for his life. Other than Eliza's correspondence with Jefferson, it all happened pretty much like I've written here - he became ill, he was attended by Dr. David Hosack, Hamilton left for Connecticut to represent New York State in a case in federal court, he wrote Eliza to recommend a cold bath treatment (the same treatment administered by Edward Stevens that saved his and Eliza's life from yellow fever) and express his regrets for having to leave his family at that time, Philip grew worse, Eliza was banned from the room, Hosack sent an express courier for Hamilton so he could (hopefully) arrive before the boy died, Philip grew delirious and lost his pulse, Philip slipped into a coma, Hosack revived him with a warm bath in Peruvian bark and rum and wrapping him in dry blankets afterward, Philip started to get better, Hamilton arrived fully expecting to learn that his son had died, then insisted on waking Hosack up to thank him (even though they had never met), then insisted on caring for Philip. Hosack actually commented on Hamilton's "tender feeling" in caring for his son, and was impressed by Hamilton's medical knowledge (before he decided to study law, Hamilton initially considered going into medicine). Hosack's words: "From that moment, he devoted himself most assiduously to the care of his son, administering with his own hand every dose of medicine or cup of nourishment that was required. I may add that this was his custom in every important case of sickness that occurred in his family."
> 
> Also, I think that the four-sentence note from Jefferson to Eliza is the hardest thing I've ever written. I read SO MANY of Jefferson's letters, focusing mostly on the ones to his daughter Martha and Angelica Schuyler Church, trying to get his "voice" right. I'm pretty sure I nailed it, but that could be fatigue-inspired delusion.
> 
> Also also, as always, suggestions are accepted gratefully and comments are received with a ticker-tape parade and promises to name my firstborn after you.


	7. Chapter 7

Over the next two weeks, Alexander watches his wife closely.

On the surface, everything seems normal. She goes about her daily routine, taking care of the children, taking care of the home, running the household. But she lacks a certain vitality that has always been a part of Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton's essential makeup.

To be fair, it's been a rough few weeks. Actually, if he's being honest, she hasn't been herself since those rumors started. A blade of guilt slides its way into his chest. That's probably it. She's still probably smarting over the public humiliation.

And she seems to be recovering. She smiles at him when she sees him; and even if the smile looks forced, at least it's a smile, right? She even goes out and visits with some friends on Tuesday. Maybe it's best if he gives her space, lets her work it out herself on her own time and at her own pace.

Still, he can't shake the look that was on her face as he was holding her, or the feeling that he had seen that look, somewhere.

* * *

As promised, Jefferson sends a taxi for her at 2:00 sharp. She swallows the lump in her throat and waves back at the children, a smile forced onto her mouth so she appears cheery at the thought of meeting with her friends.

To her immense surprise, instead of the office, the butler who answered the door escorted her to a bedroom. In fact, the butler escorted her to what looked suspiciously like _Jefferson's_ bedroom.

"Madison was unable to join us today," the man himself explains. "He had some business out of town, unfortunately. But he sends his regards." He's standing at a sideboard, of all things, and pouring two glasses of red wine from a carafe. She accepts hers gratefully, and sips the contents. It's a surprisingly good vintage. He sits in one of the armchairs by the sideboard, and gestures her to the other.

“I was very glad to hear of your son's recovery,” he says over his own glass. “To lose a child is a horrible, horrible thing, that I would not wish on my worst enemy.” Eliza then recalls that Jefferson himself had lost several children, most in infancy but one vivacious three-year old. And that, technically speaking, for Philip to have not recovered _would_ have been Jefferson's worst enemy losing a child.

“They do bring great joy to our lives,” Eliza, the mother of six healthy children, responds.

“Perhaps you heard; my own Patsy was recently married.” Jefferson seems determined to keep the conversational ball going. 

“Yes, of course,” she replies politely. In this case, 'recently married' meant 'married seven years ago and already has three children'.

She's still trying to decide whether she wants to keep the conversation going and stall the inevitable or just get it over with, when the decision is made for her. “Well, then,” Jefferson says, and takes the last sip of his wine. Eliza throws her own glass back, appreciative of whatever buzz she can get from it. “Are you ready, my dear?”

She tries to hide her wince at the pet name. “Of course,” she replies. “The sooner we begin, the sooner I can return home to my own family.”

It's his turn to hide a wince, but she's remorseless. This isn't a pleasant social call, and she isn't here by choice. If he wanted an amiable conversation, then perhaps he shouldn't be blackmailing her.

“Very well, then,” he says, and puts his glass down. As she does the same, he crosses over to her and begins to unbutton her gown.

Her confusion must show on her face, because he chuckles under his breath. “It's James that insists on the show,” he explains. “I'm quite happy with allowing things to proceed naturally.” Then the bastard actually has the gall to _wink_ at her.

She flushes at that, but allows him to continue. He removes her gown, corset, and petticoat, draping them neatly across the chair she had just vacated, but leaves her shift on as he leads her to the bed.

She allows him to move her into laying on her back, then watches as he climbs on the bed himself and straddles her. He slowly pulls the shift down her body, and to her immense discomfort begins to lick a trail down the skin he's exposing inch by inch. She can't help but shiver as the cold air hits her newly-wet, newly-naked skin. He pulls the hem down to her waist, then stops. She gasps as he takes one of her nipples in his mouth and traces a circle around it with his tongue. He ends with a little nip that has her gasping again, then moves to do the same to the other nipple.

She hates how much she's enjoying this.

The shift continues its journey down her body, until she's completely nude. He continues to lick a trail down the center of her abdomen, until right above where her pubic hair starts. He kisses the skin there, lightly, then nips it (earning him another gasp), before tossing the discarded shift onto the floor.

He flips her over and pulls her pelvis up, so she's resting on her knees with her ass in the air but her cheek is still resting on the bed. She hears the sound of metal on fabric as he unbuttons his trousers, and that's the only warning she has before he slides himself into her.

She buries her face in the quilt to stifle a moan. Say what you want about Thomas Jefferson (and Eliza could provide a few words if you ran out), but the man knew what he was doing in bed. With the first thrust he's hitting her exactly right, and she loves it, and she hates it.

Then he's moving, and she can't help the little “oh!” that escapes her mouth with every thrust. The tension builds and builds, the familiar lead up to something wonderful, and she's almost there …

… when, suddenly, he stops.

She hates herself a little more for the whine of protest that escapes unbidden as he stops moving inside of her.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” the asshole teases her.

She buries her face in the quilt again to keep from giving the little shit the satisfaction of an answer.

Another hard thrust brought her face back back up. “I asked, are you enjoying yourself?” he repeats.

“Y-yes,” she reluctantly replies, because he's not going to continue until she does, and she desperately needs the jerkass to finish her off.

“Would you like me to continue?” he asks in the same teasing tone.

“Yes,” she answers, tacking a “please” on the end, because manners.

“Then you're going to have to ask for it,” the shithead informs her smugly.

She's honestly considering staying silent just on principle when another thrust has her gasping. “P-please, sir,” comes out before she can stop it.

“Please, what?” he replies. “You're going to have to be more specific,” and holy shit, even her husband doesn't talk this much in bed.

She wonders if she can twist her arm around to punch him in the face, but she doesn't think her elbow will bend enough. “Please keep going,” she says instead.

“Keep going what?”

“Keep,” another thrust earns him another moan, “keep doing that!”

He leans over her instead, so that he's practically whispering in her ear. “Beg me to fuck you,” he commands in a voice that's chilling, even here.

Her face burns with the humiliation of it, but, damn it, she needs this. “Please, sir, please fuck me.” Another single thrust in just the right spot has her seeing stars. “Please, oh, please, sir, please, fuck me!”

“Sir?” the motherfucker hints.

It only takes her a moment to realize what he wants. She buries her face in the quilt again, realizing that she's going to have to sell another piece of her soul to this asshole. “Please fuck me, Thomas,” she finally gets out.

He has her coming in three more thrusts, and although the orgasmic high is always wonderful, the stars that explode in her vision just aren't as bright as they normally are.

* * *

She walked along the Hudson River on her way home, and watched the water. It made for a very peaceful tableau. A small flock of ducks were paddling around in the shallows; farther out, a barge loaded down with cargo headed for the harbor.

She watched the water swirl by, and wondered what it would be like to just … step off the walkway, into the water. What it would be like to swim down and never come up. What it would be like to end this nightmare that her life had become.

The bastards would undoubtedly come after her family, if she wasn't around any longer to hold them off. Besides, the water here is probably too shallow for her to do anything but get herself wet before she was rescued.

She stopped and brought candy for the children before heading home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Martha Jefferson (third cousins) had six children during ten and a half years of marriage. Only two (Martha and Mary) survived past childhood. Most of their children (including one son) died as infants; although one daughter, Lucy Elizabeth (the second one) lived to be three years old.
> 
> When Martha the mother died, Jefferson was heartbroken. By all accounts, he genuinely loved her deeply. On her deathbed she made him promise not to remarry, because she didn't want another woman raising her children. Hence his liaisons and affairs.
> 
> He had a brief fling with Maria Cosway (which may or may not have been consummated) while in France, which was complicated by the fact that Cosway was married. It was Cosway whom he was trying to impress when he broke his wrist. He would literally rearrange his schedule to spend as much time with the Cosways as possible. Poor Mr. Cosway was rather oblivious through the whole thing. When the Cosways moved to England, and Jefferson (who was still the ambassador to France and all that) couldn't go with, that kind of ended that. Fortunately, his children and their entourage joined him in France a few months later, including the 15 year old Sally Hemings as maid to 9 year old Polly (Mary). He started a relationship with Sally, quite possibly because of her resemblance to his late wife.
> 
> Why did Sally resemble Martha, you might be asking. Are you sitting down? BECAUSE THEY WERE HALF SISTERS.
> 
> Slavery was kind of the worse thing the human race has ever done.
> 
> Later edit: I FORGOT JEFFERSON'S CANE! I. Forgot. Jefferson's. Cane. 
> 
> Do you know how much messed up shit I could have done if I had remembered that fucker earlier? Damn, it's only as I'm starting the wrap up that I remember. 
> 
> *sigh* Excuse me, y'all. I have next chapter to rework.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by far the worst chapter of the fic. Madison's a sick bastard and Jefferson's enjoying himself too much to stop it. This is also the first chapter that I feel like I should include the disclaimer: don't try the following at home, kids, not unless you're 100% sure what you're doing.

A few days later, an unexpected knock on their door produced a messenger looking for Eliza. He pressed a folded and sealed piece of paper into her hand before taking his leave.

She cursed inwardly; he had given it to her in front of the children. Outwardly, she dismissed them from their lessons for the time being, and waited until they had cleared the room to read the message. She wanted to be alone when she opened this letter; she recognized the handwriting.

> _DEAR MADAM_

> _Tuesday will be inconvenient for us to meet, as our friend J.M. doesn't return from his business until the next day. Please visit us on Wednesday instead._

> _TH: J._

She read the note through, then immediately consigned it to the fire. Watching it burn to ash, something nagged at the back of her mind. Something important … But the harder she thought about it, the harder it eluded her. She let it be, and hoped that it would come back to her later.

That evening, Alexander stopped her as she was getting ready to retire for the night. “I heard that we had a visitor this morning?” he said, obviously curious for details.

The children had seen the messenger; one of them had likely told him about it. She couldn't tell him that it had been a delivery or something equally benign. Unfortunately, messages weren't sent lightly. The normal course of events would be for the contents to be shared with the entire family. Unless, of course, they were private; in which case, Alexander would understandably wonder who was sending his wife clandestine messages. “Just a few necessities I had my eye on,” she lied quickly. “That darling store on Franklin was sold out of the soap bars in the fragrance I like, and promised to inform me when they received a shipment. The store was simply informing me that their new stock arrives on Wednesday.” He hated that store; said that the strong fragrances gave him a headache. She hoped that that meant he'd never have either means or motive to collaborate her story with the shopkeep.

He wasn't convinced; she could see it in his eyes. Something about the way she had said it, or the look on her face, tipped him off. Maybe she had volunteered too many details? Maybe there hadn't been enough?

Her husband was such a smart man.

She should tell him the truth. She should lay it all at his feet, and solicit his help to fix it. He would understand. He would help her. The words she would use flashed through her brain. It would be so easy. It would be such a relief. Give it to him, and let him find a way out of the mess she was in. She opened her mouth to speak.

“Alright, then,” he spoke before she did. “I'll be to bed shortly.” And with that, he turned back to his work.

Without another word, she turned and went to their bedroom to prepare for bed.

* * *

Both men are waiting for her when she's escorted into the office. Neither man is wearing a coat, which is normal, but both men have shed their waistcoats as well, which isn't.

"Mrs. Hamilton," Madison greets her with a significant raise of his eyebrow. She knows what he's telling her. With a sigh, she walks over to the chairs and begins to strip.

It never gets any easier. Her hands still shake a little as she pulls her shift over her head, and place it with her other clothes.

Neither man says anything until she is completely bare, they just watch her with matching looks of hunger on their faces, while she resists the urge to cover herself with her hands.

When she's finished, both men suddenly rise. She's alarmed, but neither man approach her. Jefferson grabs a side chair, and Madison takes something out of a desk.

He shows it to her, and she blushes. It's a life-sized wooden representation of an erect male member, highly detailed and lifelike. He then takes out a rag and, of all things, a bottle of olive oil, and starts to oil the wood.

"Have a seat," Jefferson commands her, and she jumps at how close he is suddenly. His grin of amusement tells her that he noticed. Obediently, she lowers herself onto the chair.

"Put your heels on the corners of the chair," he further commands, and she is mortified by how this shifts her pelvis and stretches the skin between her legs to show her most intimate areas clearly.

Madison comes over, and hands her the wooden object. "Are you ready to give us a show?" he asks her, and explains exactly how to use the object to give herself pleasure.

And it's too much, much too much. "No," she states, and is proud of how firm she sounds. "I will allow you to use me as you see fit. But I will not be an agent in my own abuse."

There it is. Finally, she's given their actions here a name, a title. She is surprised that, even though she had consented to everything they've done to her, it still feels that way, like abuse. Maybe, even, like something more.

"Very well," Madison replies, and she's instantly wary at how reasonable and calm he sounds. "If you feel that way, you may leave. The door is right there; I'm confident you can see your way out."

She blinks, feeling sluggish and stupid. "I can go?" she asks for clarification, sensing a trap but unable to see it.

"Of course," Madison assures her. "You've always been free to leave, at any time."

"Then, again," Jefferson chimes in, "that will count as forfeiture on your end of our bargain."

Her shoulders slump. So, really, she has the same un-choice she's always had. "I understand," she says, and picks up the wooden thing. With a sigh, she put her heels back up on the chair, and uses her left hand to spread her labia open, to guide the object into herself with her right hand.

It's an odd sensation. Eliza had never masturbated as a teenager, and had been married before such a thing might have occurred to her as a young adult.

However, fourteen years of marriage have taught her what she likes and what she doesn't. It takes a few minutes for her to figure out how to grip the thing, how to angle it into herself, how to slam it in just right, how to hit that sweet spot. It's not nearly as good as a partner, but it's fine in its own way, and under other circumstances she could even see herself enjoying it.

But those eyes are burning into her, and she cannot for a moment forget that she has an audience. Forget the circumstances that brought her to this point.

Midway through, Jefferson rises and comes to stand behind her. It's almost as if the man can't help himself. He cards his fingers through her hair gently as he's given a front row seat to the little show she's being forced to give.

At one point, he even reaches down, as if he's going to help her along. But Madison makes an odd grunting noise, and his hand jerks back.

She finishes, without Jefferson's help, and gives a little mew of pleasure as she experiences the most lackluster orgasm of her life. It's the only sound she's made the entire time.

Madison only gives her a moment to recover. "What do you think?" he asks Jefferson. "Is she ready for a Charlottesville Special?"

Jefferson reaches down again, and suddenly she has two fingers inside of her. She'd make a sound of protest if she thought it would do anything but amuse the two men. "She's soaking wet," Jefferson informs Madison.

Madison rises, and Jefferson hooks the fingers still in her and uses them to jerks her up. It's more unexpected than painful, and it surprises her out of a squeal. As she thought, both men chuckle at her pitiful protest. But at least Jefferson removes his fingers.

She's led to a bench, where, to her utter surprise, Jefferson lays down on his back. "You're going to ride him," Madison explains as Jefferson unbutton his trousers to allow his erection to spring free.

She blinks in confusion as to exactly what it is they want her to do. “I'm going to … ride him?” she asks for confirmation.

Madison sighs. “You are going to crouch with your legs on either side of his, then you're going to lower yourself so that his dick is inside that sweet little cunt of yours. Then you're going to use your thigh muscles to move yourself up and down on his dick. Do you understand now?”

She flushes at what she's being asked to do; in fact, she's not unfamiliar with the concept. Alexander likes her on top from time to time, and she enjoys the experience. It's just not one she'd be expected to perform here. “I understand,” she replies, and climbs up onto the bench to crouch in the way Madison had indicated. She flushes even deeper when she has to touch Jefferson's cock to guide him into herself.

There, she hesitates a moment. This isn't like what usually happens, what they usually do to her. Then, she just has to lay wherever they've positioned her and take whatever they do to her. Here, she's again a participant. It's harder, somehow.

Madison seems to sense her hesitation. With another sigh, he reaches over and slaps her bare ass. She winces at the sudden pain, but obediently lowers herself onto Jefferson's cock until his balls hit her labia.

"Good girl," she hears Madison coo behind her, and it makes her want to be sick.

At which point she begins to half-heartedly move herself up and down on him. She's not enjoying herself – she isn't exactly happy about any of this, so she isn't giving her best effort by any stretch of the imagination – but Jefferson seems to be having a good time.

She can hear Madison moving behind her. Suddenly, her arms are grabbed and her wrists are tied behind her. It makes the entire operation much more difficult, and Jefferson has to place his hands on her hips to steady her, but more than that it makes her wonder what's to come next.

She doesn't have long to wait. Without ceremony, Madison places his hands on her shoulder blades and pushes. Without her hands to catch her fall, she's completely helpless and reliant on Jefferson to catch her. Which he does, with a hiss of surprise. “Perhaps a little warning next time, James?” he shoots at Madison, who just laughs.

Then, he lays her down, and she has no choice but to drape her naked torso over his clothed one. He's kissing and nipping at her throat and shoulder, so she doesn't notice right away when Madison moves to straddle Jefferson's legs behind her. She does notice, however, when he slips his dick into her right on top of Jefferson's.

It's about that moment when she begins to lose it.

* * *

Hamilton is a lucky man. That's all Thomas can think as he watches Eliza's amazing body position itself above his. Hamilton's wife is an exquisite creature, and there is no way that he appreciates her the way she deserves.

Then James is pulling her arms back, and it just shows off her body all the more. The dip of her waist, the curve of her breast, the flair of her hips. She could be a marble statue of Venus come to life, the masterpiece of some long-dead Roman artist in the flesh.

Then she's falling onto him. He pretends to be angry, but he isn't, not really. She's scared, he can tell, and it just heightens his arousal. He hugs her nude body to him, running his hand through her hair, kissing her throat and the line of her collarbone.

And then he feels James' dick slide into her, slide along his, and he loves this part. Loves the odd sensation of two different textures. Loves the way they both fill their partner up far more than either of them could alone.

He doesn't notice right away that she's not enjoying herself, as well.

* * *

Someone is screaming. It takes a moment for Eliza to realize that it's her. It takes even longer to realize that the screams form words.

“Get out get it out get off get out get off me get it out get out!” She's panicking, she realizes, thrashing about and trying to get away. But there's nowhere to get away to. She's stuck, she can't move, and _oh god_ , that hurts! She can feel the skin on her wrists tearing as she thrashes, but she doesn't care, she just needs them off! She needs the bindings off now! She needs she needs she needs

“Get off!” she screams one more time, and then she buries her face in Jefferson's chest and sobs.

When it's all over, Jefferson at least has the decency to look troubled. Madison just looks smug, like her tears were some sort of victory. She finds, to her surprise, that she doesn't care about either reaction. She's numb, as she cleans the blood and semen off her thighs, as she dresses, as she leaves. She's numb.

She tells her family that she's over-extended herself, changes into her long-sleeved nightgown, and goes to bed. She should feel guilty about the look of panic in Alexander's eyes, but she doesn't. She's numb.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, everything comes crashing down.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eliza's forgotten something, something important. Alexander finds it.

There was something seriously wrong with Eliza. Alexander lay next to his wife and listened to her sleep restlessly through the nightmares. Every time he brushed up against her she would flinch away from him, even in her sleep.

The next morning, Alexander rose before Eliza. That was unusual; Eliza was an early riser, and occasionally would be up before he was even when he was Secretary of the Treasury. Thinking that she may still be feeling ill, he let her sleep in.

Several hours later, when the children came to him hungry and bored, he realized that she may be spending the day in bed. That scared him more than he thought it would.

He decided that his practice could live without him for a day, and devoted his day to the tasks Eliza usually did. Fortunately, the maid knew more about keeping children fed and learning than he did. He gave them some French to practice, then went to check on his wife.

She was still asleep. He stood there for several minutes, wondering if he should wake her, maybe even ask her what she was feeling or thinking. In the end, he left without a word.

When she was still sleeping by evening, he was beyond worried. He checked her for a fever, checked her pulse, put his head on her chest and listened to her heartbeat and breathing, and ignored the way she flinched away from him.

When he lifted his head from her chest, it was to find her watching him with empty, unseeing eyes. As he watched, she rolled over and went back to sleep.

That night, he was surprised when she slept through the night, even if the nightmares made it less than restful for either of them.

When she rose with him the next morning, he hoped that she was beginning to beat back this strange illness. But she moved about the house in an apathetic, almost dazed, fashion. Like all the vitality had gone out of her. Like she had lost her spark, her zeal for life.

Something had to change. Giving her space to heal hadn't worked; if anything, she had gotten worse. It was time for him to get involved. Somehow.

He thought about contacting Dr. Hosak, but had no idea what he'd tell the man. Everything he knew was so vague. He wanted to go up to his wife and shake her out of her stupor. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her until she was his Betsey again. He wanted to fix this, but he didn't even know what "this" is. And it was killing him.

Angelica would know what to do. He brightened at the thought; Angelica and her husband had just moved back to New York. He would draft a letter to Angelica, detail everything that had happened and everything that he had observed, and ask her advice. He needed her new address; where was that letter she had sent to Eliza?

He went to Eliza's desk and pulled out her stack of correspondence. Rapidly, he thumbed through the letters, looking for his sister-in-law's familiar handwriting. He was almost to the bottom of the stack when one letter in particular caught his eye. His wife's name is clearly visible on the front, even when it's lying on the floor, which is how Alexander realized that he had dropped the letters in his surprise. The handwriting is familiar, painfully familiar, but it isn't Angelica's.

Why the fuck is Thomas Jefferson writing his wife?

* * *

The pain is so intense, so real, that at first Alexander wonders if he's having a heart attack. But it's not his body that hurts.

The letter is damning. Not only was Eliza planning a tryst with his enemy, with the familiarity of having done it many times before, but his blood boils with rage and agony when he sees the date. While Philip was dying, while his son lay dying in the other room, Eliza was writing letters to her paramour to reschedule their meeting to a more convenient time.

He finds her in the parlor, teaching the children. She's teaching them history, his brain supplies. It seems to want to catch on unimportant details, like the color of James Alexander's shirt, or his wife's face when she looks up and sees the expression on his own.

He wonders, vaguely, what his face looks like right now.

She excuses herself from the children and half-leads, half-follows Alex to the office. The thud of the lock sliding into place is horrifically final.

She sees the letter in his hand, and her eyes dim a little more. "So you know," is how she reacts.

He thinks of all the things he could say here – demanding to know how it happened, begging her to tell him how long it's been going on – but instead finds himself asking, "how could you?"

Her eyes are unfocused; she doesn't even appear to be in the room with him anymore. "I did what I had to do to protect my family."

A little voice in the back of his skull warns that this isn't a logical response to the question. He tells the back of his skull to go fuck itself. “But, of all the men in this world, with _Thomas Jefferson_?!”

She looks at him then, really _looks_ at him. “So you don't know,” she responds.

He throws his hands up, exacerbated. “Don't know what?!” he bites out. What more could there possibly be?

Her eyes hollow out again. “I did what I had to do to protect my family,” she says again, and it's just _wrong_ enough to break through his anger.

“Don't know what?” he demands again, a trickle of something that tastes almost like fear settling in his stomach. “Eliza? What don't I know?”

She's looking at her hands now, the beautiful white muslin of her morning gown oddly incongruous with the situation. “I did what I had to do to stop the rumors,” she whispers, almost too low for him to hear.

And he gets it. He _gets it_. He knows exactly what that man is capable of.

He's looking at his wife. If she was an adultress whose secrets had just come to life, she should be tearfully throwing herself at him and begging him to forgive her. Or she should be angry, hissing and spitting at him how her infidelity is all his fault. _Something_. Instead, she's staring at her hands with eyes as empty as one of Angie's dolls.

With a rush, he realizes where he's seen eyes like that before. Where he's seen that look on someone's face.

He's seen it during the war, when children far too young to go soldiering were given muskets and forced to face the horrors of battle. He's seen it during his court battles, when victims come to him with a story of pain and abuse and the scars to collaborate that story.

The fact that it's now his wife, his beloved Betsey, wearing that face, terrifies him.

Before he can stop himself, he's reaching out, grabbing her wrist. She flinches and pulls back, but hisses in something that looks suspiciously like pain.

It's the pain that does it. He shifts his grip from her wrist to her elbow, but refuses to let go of the arm. Instead, he draws up the sleeve of her gown.

The livid welts around her wrist leave him choking in rage. A quick check shows matching marks on her other wrist.

“Where else did they hurt you?” he asks, softly but firmly. He knows that if Jefferson was involved, then so was Madison. Those two are like cockroaches, infesting in pairs.

She shakes her head, no, but it's too delayed and hesitant to be believable. Slowly, gently, he takes the hem of her gown and draws it over her head, then her corset and shift. She shivers but doesn't stop him.

For a time, he can't find anything. Her body bears no marks other than the bruises around her wrists, and he thinks that she may have been telling the truth after all. That maybe she was spared the worst of the pair's brutality.

But then he has her sit in his desk chair and parts her legs, and gets a good look at the state of the skin between her thighs.

He has to pause a moment, as the fury that climbs up from his stomach and chokes him speechless is so strong that he actually can't see for a moment.

Without a word, he closes her legs, draws her up, drapes the shift back on her, then the rest of her clothes. She refuses to look at him the entire time.

Gently, gently, he cups her chin and moves it around so she's looking at him. “You should have told me,” he chides her gently, without anger.

She looks at him then, really looks at him. “I didn't want you upset at me,” she confesses.

And he can't stop himself from wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. “It's not your fault,” he reassures her. “I know that you're not to blame.”

She fights him for a moment, but he's unyielding. Finally, finally, she buries her face in his shirt and cries. He sighs in relief that the emotionless facade is cracking. “You'll never have to go back there again,” he reassures her.

She stops crying and looks at him. “I have to go back,” she tells him, and he's shocked. “If I don't, they'll start spreading their rumors again.”

He had forgotten about that. Those fucking rumors, spread by two men who knew better. They were ruining his life. Worse, far worse, they were ruining his family's lives. “No, you don't,” he assures her. “You never have to see those animals again for the rest of your life. I promise.”

“Alexander,” and now, somehow, she's annoyed. “I'm going back there on Tuesday. I have to. Please, just accept that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD, was something that wasn't fully understood until unbelievably recently. For example, General Patton (Lieutenant General George S. Patton, of the United States Army during World War II) had his career stalled for almost a year when he struck two soldiers suffering from "battle fatigue" (what they called war-caused PTSD at the time) and called them "cowards" that "bring discredit on the army and disgrace to their comrades", even threatening to court-martial them. This was in 1943. Even when we started realizing that PTSD was a thing, it was seen as something that only affected soldiers. It wasn't until 1975 that "Rape Trauma Syndrome" (or RTS) was recognized as happening to victims of sexual assault. Somewhere along the line, someone realized that those two disorders have similar symptoms. However, even today, PTSD is seen by pop culture as something that primarily affects war veterans.
> 
> This fic was originally supposed to be ten chapters long, but it's going to end up running longer than that. Also, the next chapter is going to be a little later coming than I've been updating, as I'm going out of town for a few days. I should post chapter ten around Thursday or Friday. I'll still be reading and replying to all your wonderful comments, however, so keep 'em coming! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got one more in before I had to leave!

At precisely 2:38 PM, there's a knock on the study door. Thomas looks up to see his butler enter the room. "There's a Hamilton here to see you, sir," he said.

Thomas and James share a quick smile before he turns back to the man. "Thank you, Peter," he says. "Send her in."

After last week, they had decided to go easy on the woman. No need to hurt her further, after all. They'd spend a few weeks being gentle, being accommodating, and see what happened. Thomas was looking forward to hearing his name fall from those beautiful lips in the throes of passion again.

Peter steps back and lets a figure through. It's a Hamilton, all right; just the wrong one. Alexander Hamilton walks into Thomas' study looking pissed.

Of course, that particular Hamilton always looks pissed. Maybe he doesn't know. "Hamilton," Thomas greets him. "What can we do for you?"

Hamilton ignores him. Instead, he pauses, takes in the room, seems to make a decision of some sort, strides over to James, and punches him in the face.

* * *

It's been years since Alexander had last been at Jefferson's New York residence. The door opened almost as soon as he knocks, and it makes him sick to realize it's because they were expecting a visitor. A butler, undoubtedly a slave, looks him up and down. "May I help you, sir?" he asks, polite but wary.

"Yes. I'm here to see Vice President Jefferson," he replies. "I'm Alexander Hamilton."

The man perks up at the name. "Hamilton, you said?" he asks. "Are you the husband of that sweet woman that's been comin' around?"

"I am," he answers, and something hard and dangerous slips into his voice before he can stop it.

The butler doesn't hesitate. "Come in, Mrs. Hamilton," he says. "You're expected."

He leads Alex into the house and down the hallway. "It isn't right, what they did to her," the butler mutters to him. "It's not her fault, you know? They do this, they hurt people and force people to hurt themselves."

"Don't worry," Alex assures the man, touched by his desire to defend Eliza. "I know exactly who's to blame here."

The man nods, satisfied, the stops outside a set of double doors. "Give 'em hell," he whispers, before knocking. "There's a Hamilton here to see you, sir," Alexander can hear him tell the room.

"Thank you, Peter," he hears the bastard himself answer. "Send her in." He can feel the blood boiling in his veins; that's _his wife_ they're talking about.

He has to give them credit; neither Jefferson nor Madison looks so much as surprised when he walks through the door instead of Eliza. "Hamilton," Jefferson greets him warmly, as if he was just another colleague stopping by for a quick consultation. "What can I do for you?"

Alexander doesn't waste time responding. Instead, he quickly decides that Madison is closer, covers the distance in fewer strides than he would have thought it would take, and punches Madison right in his nose. The cartilage makes a satisfying _crunch_ under Alex's fist.

To his immense surprise, Jefferson responds by laughing. "So you found out," he says, and there's nothing warm in his voice now. "Honestly? I'm surprised it took you this long."

When he needs them most, the words fail him. "You bastard," is all he can say. "She's my _wife_!"

"And Maria Reynolds was someone's wife," Jefferson retorts without a pause. "Try again, Hamilton."

Alexander's seeing spots, and he suddenly realizes how close to snapping he is. He takes a few breaths before continuing; and judging by the smirk on Jefferson's face, he knows exactly the effect he's having on the smaller man. "It's not the same. You know it, I know it; I'm not wasting time debating with you. I came here to say one thing and one thing only: go near my wife again, and I will kill you. Even if I hang for it, I will kill you and it will be worth it, because I swear by whatever it is a man like you holds most sacred that my death will not be half as unpleasant as yours."

The motherfucker actually looks amused at this speech. He's about to respond, but Madison beats him to it. "Thomas," he says, and they share a significant look that Alex can't decipher, but he's sure he won't like it.

He's right. "How about a counter-offer," Jefferson says, and he's suddenly standing right in front of Alexander. Alex reflexively takes a step back, only for his back to hit the closed door. "How about you take the bullet for your wife, instead?" Jefferson knocks Alex's knees open with his own, then presses his thigh up against the bulge in his breeches. "I have fond memories of the sight of your pretty lips around my dick. One more go. We put you on that desk and fuck you until you can't see straight, and we stop the rumors forever. Just one more time." He leans in close, so he's practically whispering in Alex's ear. "What do you say?"

The horror of what Jefferson's suggesting leaves him speechless for a moment. "You're insane," he finally says, and is pleased when it comes out stronger than he feels at the moment. It gives him strength to push the larger man off of him. "I've said what I came here to say. You'd do well to remember it." He turns to leave.

"And you'd do well to remember our offer," Madison pipes up from where he's still standing. His voice has a nasal quality to it, but he doesn't seem to mind; nor does he mind the blood pouring down his face. "You have a week."

Alexander doesn't deign to reply; instead, he opens the door to leave, the pauses. "Oh, and Jefferson?" he says, and when the man turns to see what he has to say, Alex punches him in the face, as hard as he can.

When he closes the door behind him on his way out, Jefferson is still laughing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter before I leave, I swear! Chapter eleven will be up on Thursday or Friday, but I'll be reading and responding to comments and kudos in the meantime.
> 
> The exact nature of Jefferson/Madison and Hamilton's past will be the subject of an upcoming one-shot I'll post after I'm finished this one. I'm thinking of also posting a one-shot of their first encounter with Eliza, from her POV and Jefferson's POV, since I couldn't give away many details in this fic.
> 
> Jefferson and Madison have given Hamilton an offer: let them have him instead of his wife, just for one time, and they'll never post the rumors again. What do you guys think Hamilton should do? Should he accept, or should he write his way out like he did in real life?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, and I come bearing gifts!

It took until Friday for Alexander to decide what to do. At that point, he sent a letter to Jefferson detailing his decision, and arranging a time for a "business meeting". It took until that appointment, on Monday, to prepare himself mentally.

Eliza, he knew, had gone in blind. That first time, she likely hadn't even known what would be expected of her, that intimate liberties would be taken. To this day, even with the marks he had seen on her skin, it was likely that she didn't know the full extent of Madison and Jefferson's depravity.

Alexander didn't have that luxury.

So when he knocked at Jefferson's door again, on Monday morning, he did so armed with the knowledge of what, exactly, was likely to happen. As well as the anger and experience to play their game, and play to win.

The same slave answered his knock. "Good morning, Peter," Alexander greeted him.

Peter, for his part, looked almost disturbed to see him on Jefferson's doorstep. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but you shouldn't've come back," he told Alex.

Alexander would have taken offense if not for the fact that he knew that Peter likely knew exactly what he was here for – or, rather, what he was here to allow to happen to him. "My wife is as gentle as a lamb," he told the butler, "and, like a lamb, was led unknowingly to the slaughter." He grinned, then, showing his teeth. "Your master will find me much harder prey."

Whatever Peter saw in his expression seemed to satisfy the man, because without another word he turned and led Alexander to Jefferson's office.

Before the butler could knock, Alex walked past him and threw the door open without announcing himself. "Gentlemen," he greeted Madison and Jefferson.

* * *

Thomas is careful not to allow his surprise at the sudden interruption to show. "Hamilton," he greets the man standing in the doorway.

"Shall we get down to business, then?" James suggests, and Thomas loves seeing that sadistic expression on his friend's face. It means that they're about to seriously enjoy themselves. "There's a hangar by the door; I'd hate for that atrocity you call an outfit to get wrinkled as you strip down to your skin." The look he gives Hamilton is almost impatient.

Thomas is looking forward to this part – the blush on their victim's skin, the stuttering and embarrassment as he hesitates to bare himself. However, to his surprise, none of that happens.

Instead, Hamilton laughs. "Oh, I don't think that will be necessary, James," he replies nonchalantly, and both men bristle at the way he brandishes the informality like a taunt. "I promise you that I can blow you _and_ keep my clothes on. It's a talent of mine."

James is taken aback, so Thomas jumps in. "Big words from such a small man," he says, letting just a hint of the contempt he feels bleed into the words. "Why don't you come here and show me if your mouth is good for anything other than false bravado, _boy_."

It's a mistake, and the moment that last word leaves his mouth, he knows it. So does Hamilton, judging by his expression. Both sides had danced around the issue since Hamilton walked in, but Hamilton had successfully baited his enemies into being the first party to sink to resorting to insults.

"As you say, Mr. Vice President," Hamilton replies, and the formality of the title drives the knife in a little deeper.

He strides over in a self-assured way that grates on Thomas even more. Like this is all his idea, like he doesn't mind being here. Irritated, Thomas reaches over and yanks him down onto his knees. Even clothed, he makes a pretty picture there, kneeling at Thomas' feet.

Without waiting to be told, Hamilton reaches up and unbuttons Thomas' trousers, then reaches in and pulls his dick out. He doesn't hesitate but wraps his lips around it, letting his tongue caress the bottom. Thomas sighs in pleasure, and gets ready to enjoy himself.

Which he does ... somewhat. Hamilton's good at this, but he's not _skilled_ , per se. Pity. Thomas has heard rumors, and had himself remembered Hamilton as being better than the performance he's currently giving. Still, it's good to know that there are things that even the amazing Alexander Hamilton isn't talented at.

But he's not wasting his load on a blowjob, especially one this lackluster. He's just about to pull out when, suddenly, at the next thrust, Hamilton's tongue flicks Thomas' head, then slowly caresses where the head meets the shaft. As Thomas thrusts back in, Hamilton applies just a little teeth, just enough to glide along the skin. Then he looks up, catches Thomas' eye, and actually begins to _hum._ The vibration sets him over the edge _,_ and Thomas finds himself coming despite himself.

Without a word, Hamilton stuffs Thomas' dick back in his trousers, puts the other man to rights, wipes the saliva off his mouth, and stands up. He leans in, like he's going to whisper something in Thomas' ear. But something's wrong, Thomas thinks. He shouldn't be able to talk, with his mouth full of...

Hamilton leans over until his mouth is right at Thomas' ear, then loudly _swallows_.

For the first time all morning, something like uncertainty curls up in Thomas' gut.

Hamilton must have seen it in his face, because the man actually had the stones to _laugh_.

He wasn't laughing long. All of a sudden, he was off Thomas and being propelled towards the desk. Hamilton got the hint. "Okay, okay," he said, shaking James off of him. "Is that it?" he asked, pointing towards Thomas' desk. "Is that the desk you're going to put me on and fuck me until I can't see straight?"

He doesn't wait for confirmation. Instead, with both Thomas and James watching, he walks over to the desk, unbuttons his breeches and lets them fall to his ankles, and stands bare-assed from waist to knees. Then, without hesitation, he lays his torso over Thomas' desk, even lifting slightly to his toes so that his ass sticks up into the air, and everything from his asshole to his dick is completely visible.

Thomas doesn't dare move or make a sound. Hamilton is presenting rather prettily, and the resulting sight is impressive enough that Thomas feels a stirring in his trousers already.

Then Thomas sees Hamilton's dick. It's hanging between his legs, completely flaccid. A challenge, and an insult. Thomas feels himself begin to sweat a little. This man just sucked him off, giving him one of the best blowjobs he's ever had, and he's not hard. Not even a little.

For the first time all morning, Thomas begins to wonder if, perhaps, he and James have started something that would prove more than they could handle.

* * *

Alexander is more than aware of the picture he's making. He's more than aware of just what's on display here. He's also, thanks to Jefferson's reflective silver inkwell, aware of how his display is being received.

He allows himself a smirk at Madison's hesitancy and Jefferson's uncertainty.

He gives it a ten-count before turning to lock eyes with Madison. "Well?" he challenges.

Madison rises to the challenge, as Alex knew he would. Alexander has cause to be very glad that he made sure to prepare himself well before leaving the house this morning – a lesson he had learned the hard way years ago when dealing with this pair – because Madison spends very little time making sure he's ready before plunging his dick into Alex's ass.

This was something that Alexander had forgotten, however – Madison's incompetence. The man fucked with the precision of a blind cannoneer. There was no accuracy, no art, to his trusts. Off-handedly, Alex wondered if Madison and Jefferson had ever had sex, and if so who topped.

Bored, he began to mutter under his breath to himself.

It took entirely too long for Madison to catch on, but when he did he stilled for a moment. “I'm sorry, I didn't catch that,” Madison bit out, as if looking forward to an excuse to be mad.

“Oh, pardon me,” Alexander replied, feigning embarrassment. “I was just using this time to review some upcoming cases and prepare for them. You know, because you-”

Alex didn't get to finish that thought. Madison, insulted, started slamming into him with a force that brought tears to his eyes. It was, Alexander decided, not only a predictable reaction but completely worth the pain.

Suddenly, Madison actually hit his prostrate. Fleetingly, Alexander thought about that idiom about a broken clock still being right twice a day. He could feel his cock twitch in interest, and immediately squashed it. There was a point to be made here, after all.

If Madison had kept it up, of course, it would have been impossible. As it was, Madison's aim drifted, and Alexander went flaccid again.

Madison finished, and Alex could feel something warm fill his colon. Figures Madison wouldn't be the type to pull out. Internally, he sighed with relief as Madison slipped out of him, but didn't move. The worst part of the morning was over, but if he remembered correctly …

Sure enough, Jefferson soon took his place. Thomas, Alexander thought to himself, always had been quick to recover. Madison was out of the game for good, and good riddance; but Jefferson could go multiple times if given a few minutes to recover, and something stimulating to watch in the meantime.

If Madison was a bumbling idiot, Jefferson was a marksman. He struck gold with the very first thrust and every time after that. Alexander didn't have a chance of staying limp, so he didn't even try. Instead, he decided to goad Madison further. “Mmmm. See this? This is – oh! – this is how you do it. I hope you're taking – ah! – taking notes, Mr. Madison, because you – ah! – you could learn a lot from your colleague.”

He thought to go on, but was stopped by Jefferson slapping him on the ass, hard. The predictability of the action amused him, and he started to chuckle, but was forced to swallow the sound by another well-placed thrust.

He could also count on Jefferson's ego needing to be fed by forcing his partner to climax, as well. A hand snaked around Alex's hips and wrapped around his dick, then started to pump in time with Jefferson's thrusts. Alexander couldn't help the moan that escaped his lips at that point, and could practically _feel_ the smug self-congratulations Jefferson was indulging in at the sound. He didn't mind; Jefferson had earned it, and he believed strongly in giving credit where credit was due.

He was practically yelling his pleasure by the time Jefferson suddenly pulled out and came all over his bare ass. It was annoying, but Alex decided to forgive him when Jefferson reached back around and finished him off.

At the last minute, a particular part of his wife's account of what happened in this very office came to mind. So, as he climaxed, he sank bonelessly onto the desk in genuine bliss, and moaned out a throaty, “oh, Eliza!”

When he turned around, Madison was trying to decide whether to be amused or pissed, and Jefferson looked something between devastated and furious.

Alexander looked at both men pointedly. He won this round, and all three knew it. “It's done, then,” he said, forcefully. “I've given you both a fuck, and now you'll make sure your rumors never again see the light of day.”

“We're men of our word,” Madison replied, and Jefferson controlled himself long enough to nod in agreement.

“Good, that's good,” Alexander said, stuffing himself back into his breeches while he talked. “However, I remember exactly how much of a 'man of your word' you are, Madison, so let me make myself perfectly clear.” A flash of inspiration came to him while he put the last button in place, and he made sure to meet both men's eyes while he made the most serious threat he possibly could think of. “If I hear even a whisper of either of those rumors making the rounds again, or hear even a murmer that either of you have so much as nodded to my wife in greeting on the streets, I will write to Angelica Church and tell her, in exquisite detail, exactly what you did to her little sister. The Churches are back in New York, did you know that? Then, I will help her bury whatever is left of your bodies in a shallow grave, and happily provide an airtight alibi should they be found. Have I made myself clear?”

The look both Virginians were giving him indicated that he had, in fact, been understood completely. Alexander couldn't blame them. He had fought in a war alongside some amazing warriors and master tacticians, and then defended clients against the worst scum the city could dredge up. Even so, his sister-in-law was one of the scariest people he had ever met.

Satisfied that his point had been made, Alexander gave them a passing, “have a good week, gentlemen,” and left.

He decided not to go back to his office. Instead, he went home, taught James Alexander how to curse in French, and spent the evening with Eliza in his lap, reading her book over her shoulder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was a first for me. It was my first time writing Jamilton, and was actually my first time writing MxM.
> 
> I initially wasn't going to have Hamilton take Jefferson up on his offer, but several comments (BlueGirl22's, especially) made me realize that, yeah, actually, he probably would. I hope no one's upset by the lack of Angst! in this chapter, but I feel like we have already had enough of that. Besides, it's time someone beat Jefferson and Madison at their own game.
> 
> I've read plenty of "Jefferson (with or without Madison) forces Hamilton into sex in exchange for something" fics, but I've never read one where Hamilton turned the tables on his assailants. I feel like Hamilton is the kind of guy who would quickly find his rhythm, however, and just as quickly find a way to one-up the other guy. Especially given Hamilton's sexual history, and especially especially given how (in my AU, at least) this isn't the first time Hamilton's been in that office with the door locked.
> 
> One more chapter to go! It's a moment of healing for both Hamilton and Eliza, and it'll be sweet enough to give you cavities.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the finale!

The next evening, Eliza still won't look at him. Alexander wonders if she's upset because it's a Tuesday, if she's still embarrassed by what has come to light, or if she's somehow figured out exactly what the “business meeting” he had yesterday was really about. His first instinct is to let her have her space, let her figure it out on her own, trust her to come to him when she's ready. But that didn't work so well last time, so he gives her twenty-four hours before forcing the issue as gently as he can.

They've just put the children to bed, and Eliza has managed to go through the entire nighttime routine without making eye contact with him once. He'd be impressed, if he wasn't worried.

As she makes for the parlor, he gently cups her elbow to stop her. He keeps his grip loose; she could easily shake him off if she wished. Instead, she gamely stops and throws herself into studying his cravat.

“Betsey,” he addresses her, and is briefly confused by the way the endearment makes her startle. “Dearest wife. Please, believe me that it's over. You're safe. I will never let anything like … that … happen to you, ever again.”

“I know,” she replies tonelessly, but makes no other acknowledgment of his words.

“I'm just worried for you, is all,” he tries to cover over the fact that he has no idea what he's doing. “I don't like seeing you walk around on eggshells.”

“I'm fine,” she insists, this time with a bit of heat, and he would be cheered by her show of spirit if not for the fact that the reply feels reflexive.

He doesn't have the chance to press the issue, however. She pulls her elbow out of his grasp and brushes past him. He gives her a ten-count before following her into the parlor.

She's already selected a book, and is curled up on the settee reading it in the clearest display of a non-verbal “fuck off” that he's ever seen. At a loss, he sits on the other end of the settee and starts an odd vigil. He doesn't read, or write, or do anything. He also doesn't address her or even so much as look at her. He simply waits her out.

She lasts longer than he would have expected. He's trying not to fidget with impatience and just starting to wonder if he should do something else, something to speed this odd game along, when she finally sighs. “I don't see how you can sit so close to me,” she confesses to the book, her voice so low he almost misses her words.

That wasn't one of any of the many reactions he had prepared himself for. He blinks a few times, trying to make sense of the words, before admitting defeat. “Why wouldn't I?” he asks her, bewildered.

She doesn't answer right away, and if not for the fact that he knows she's been reading the same paragraph over and over he would assume that she didn't plan to answer at all. Instead, he mentally grits his teeth against his natural impatience, and lets her take her time. Eventually, his patience is rewarded. “I'm disgusting,” she whispers into the book.

He feels his heart break all over again, a sudden ache in his chest and tightening of his throat. He wants to scoop her into his arms and squeeze her until she sees sense, but instead simply scoots over to her side of the settee and wraps his arms around her loosely.

She pulls away from him, at first; and if he thought for even a moment that her distress was due to anything other than self-loathing, he would have immediately backed off. But he knows his wife. Instead, he tightens his grip and simply holds her until he can feel her relax.

“You are the furthest thing from disgusting that can possibly exist,” he tells her, forcefully. “Never, never doubt that.”

“I let them do all those things to me,” she replies, the response pouring out fast enough that he wonders how long she's been holding all this in.

“No,” he bites out forcefully before he can stop himself. She jumps at the harshness in his voice. “You did what you had to do. You were strong, Eliza, and brave.”

“I understand if ...” she begins, then seems to think better of it.

“If what?” he presses, sensing that this is important.

“If you never want to … I mean, if you don't want … me … If you want to ...” She can't seem to spit it out, but he's heard enough to realize what she's saying.

Without a word, he stands up, and pulls her to her feet. Holding her hand as gently as he can, he leads her upstairs to their bedroom, and slides the bolt in the lock home behind them.

She stands waiting for him, face impassive, hands by her side. He doesn't hesitate but crosses the room to her, cups her face in his hands, and kisses her with all the passion and ardor in his heart.

Under his lips, he can feel her start to thaw.

The natural next step is to start to unbutton her gown, but she twists away from his hands like they're branding irons. He curses himself for a fool. He knows what she would have been expected to do, how she would have been made to humiliate herself by baring her body. “It's fine, it's fine,” he assures her. “Leave the gown on.” She relaxes a bit at that, but Alexander can feel that she's still tense.

So, he moves her to sit on the edge of their bed, and he bares himself, instead.

He lets her watch as he strips off his waistcoat, then his cravat, then his shirt. His shoes are next to go, followed by his stockings, and finally his breeches. He stands there, now completely bare, and watches her take in the sight of his nude body with dilated pupils. She's interested, almost despite herself. Her eyes roam his body, until finally meeting his eyes with her own. He holds her gaze for a moment before winking rakishly at her, and is rewarded by a slight turning up of the corners of her mouth.

He strides over to her and straddles her, kissing her passionately again, and lowering her to the bed. She responds to his kisses now with her own, just as passionate as his.

He pulls away from her, and starts kissing down her clothed body. Her clavicle, between her breasts, her abdomen, and finally he's kneeling at her feet.

Now, he pauses. This will be delicate work. “Eliza,” he calls, and is inwardly pleased by the aroused expression on her face when she looks at him. “Are you okay to continue?” Her emphatic nod cheers him greatly. “It's okay if you're not. If at any time you want to stop, we stop. If at any time I hear anything come out of your mouth that's not the words 'yes', 'God', 'oh', or some variation of my name, everything stops, I get dressed, and we go downstairs and enjoy a quiet evening by the fire instead. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” she replies, and smiles at him like she's trying to see how it fits on her face.

He smiles back, then lifts her skirts and ducks underneath them.

She spreads her legs to him, almost eagerly, and he rewards her with a quick kiss on her inner thigh. From here, he can see that her intimate parts are still swollen and irritated, and he has to choke down a sudden rush of rage. Instead, he focuses on her thigh, sucking and nipping until he's left his own mark on her skin – one of love instead of control. The little mews of pleasure he can hear coming from outside the skirts, and the way her skin tremors under his attentions, let him know that his wife is more than agreeable to what he's doing. He turns and leaves an identical mark on her other thigh, before moving on to what lie between them.

The moment his tongue touches her folds, her entire body bucks underneath him. He places both hands at the creases where her legs meet her torso, to hold her down, and licks a line in between her lips. She tries to buck again, but he's having none of it. Briefly, he pauses, to make sure her squirming wasn't from panic; but the litany of “oh, yes!” repeating over and over from the bed puts his fears to rest. He replaces his right hand with his elbow, and instead slips a finger into her opening, and is pleased to discover how wet she is already. He adds another finger, and starts plunging them in and out while licking her clitoris. Her squirming increases in strength and frequency until he can feel her stiffen for just a moment before relaxing into her climax.

He doesn't let up, though. Instead, he keeps up his ministrations, even adding a bit of teeth, and is rewarded by a “oh, yes, Alex!” that's almost screamed as she climaxes a second time.

After her second climax her body feels a lot more relaxed, so he kisses her once more on each mark he had made on her thigh before coming out from under her skirts to crawl back on top of her and kiss her full on the mouth. 

They enjoy making out like teenagers for a few minutes before she pulls away. “But what about you?” she asks, looking down his body. He follows her gaze to realize that he's fully erect, and has been for some time.

“I'll take care of it later,” he reassures her, and goes back to kissing.

At least, he tries. But she's having none of it. “You'll take care of it now, Alexander,” she says, and it cheers him beyond words to hear her characteristic vitality back in her voice.

“Eliza,” he says, not sure how to proceed. “I'm not going to-”

“Yes, you are,” she replies. “Alexander, I want my husband inside of me.”

“Are you … are you sure, Eliza?” he asks, hesitant. The last thing he wants to do is pressure her into something she isn't comfortable with, just to please him.

In answer, she lays back down and hikes her skirts up to give him access.

He takes her up on her offer, sliding into her easily. “Eliza,” he croons, turning her name into a hymn. “My dearest Betsey.” Now that his mouth is no longer occupied, it's free to do other things. “You're so beautiful, you know that?” He sets a rhythm that's not too punishing, not yet. “You're so fucking beautiful. My Betsey.” He increases the tempo of his thrusts. “The most beautiful woman in the world. And you're mine.” He's talking out of his head now, but he can't help it; he's thinking of someone else crouched between his wife's legs, two someone elses, and it's driving him crazy. “You're all mine.” He's getting possessive now. “No other man gets to touch you. No other man gets to – oh, God! – gets to fuck you.” She's making an odd noise now with every thrust, half-mew and half-moan. He had forgotten how much she loved his possessive side. “Mine,” he growls out, and with one last thrust comes inside of her.

She's not too far behind – her third orgasm of the evening – and as he lays down beside her, she throws her arm over his stomach and nuzzles into his chest.

They fall asleep like that, her fully clothed and him completely nude, sticky and sweaty and thoroughly satisfied. The morning will bring new problems and new trials. But, for now, all is right in the world.

He lays there and listens to the sound of his wife sleeping peacefully, and the last thing he thinks before falling asleep himself is that it's the best sound in the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 21,864 words in 17 days. That has to be a personal record. 51 Federalist Papers in six months not looking so hot now, is it, Hamilton?
> 
> This has been such a roller coaster, you guys. I'm so thankful for all the wonderful comments I've gotten, all the support from my readers. The emails telling me that I have a new comment or kudos really kept me going through this whole thing. I loved writing this fic so much, and sincerely hope that you've enjoyed reading it just as much.
> 
> I'm not finished with this fandom, or even with this AU. I'll be posting a few companion fics at some point, so watch out for those. I might branch off and do some other fics as well, I haven't decided yet; but I'm thoroughly in the throes of Hamiltrash right now, and my literary muse is kicking my ass to keep going.
> 
> I hope to see you guys at the next fic!

**Author's Note:**

> In actuality, it was James Monroe, Congressman Frederick Muhlenberg, and Representative Abraham B. Venable that confronted Hamilton about the charges of speculation. They had a pretty good case against Hamilton, as James Reynolds and his partner Jacob Clingman (who actually were engaged in speculation, as well as counterfeiting and various other money-related shenanigans) had claimed Hamilton as an accomplice. Of course, Reynolds had done so, knowing that Hamilton would either have to come clean about his affair or go down for the charges. As the Treasury Department had filed the charges against them, Reynolds was convinced that Hamilton had arranged for their arrest, as revenge for Reynolds' blackmail. Instead of just lumping Hamilton in with the rest, Monroe, Muhlenberg, and Venable decided to pay Hamilton a visit, as a courtesy, and give him a chance to refute the charges in person.
> 
> Amusingly enough, as soon as the trio realized the, ah, delicate nature of Hamilton's true sins, they assured him that he didn't need to go into detail, that they had heard quite enough, and in fact urged him to stop. Hamilton, in true form, insisted on giving them an extremely detailed account of the entire affair.
> 
> There's some debate as to how, exactly, the letters between Hamilton and the Reynolds found their way to Jefferson. Some think that it may have been via John Beckley, the clerk of the House of Representatives that was given the task of copying the letters. He was a loyal Jeffersonian and may have made a separate copy for himself, then forwarded it to Jefferson and Madison. Others believe that Monroe, who was so close to Jefferson he brought a plot of land adjacent to Monticello to build his own home, meant Jefferson when he said that he "deposited the papers with a friend" for safekeeping, although Monroe himself vehemently denied that that was the case.
> 
> It's also true that Hamilton became very affectionate towards his family after his affair ended, and spent as much time with them as possible.
> 
> No one knows how Hamilton broke the news of his affair to Eliza, although he almost certainly did so long before it became public knowledge, so I made that section up completely. It's always struck me as interesting, however, that most of Eliza's complaints against Alex in the song "Burn" from the musical involve his making the affair public, not the affair itself. "You published the letters she wrote you / You told the whole world how you brought this girl into our bed / In clearing your name, you have ruined our lives" "The world has no right to my heart / The world has no place in our bed / They don’t get to know what I said" Honestly, at that time in history, the damage to his reputation (and, therefore, hers) probably was a bigger blow than the affair itself was. That's why I've written her as forgiving him in what some might consider a very quick fashion; the worse is yet to come.


End file.
